


Through Dangers Untold

by hogwartswitch



Category: Labyrinth (1986), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Chains, Come Eating, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dark Magic, Dream Sex, Everything is gloriously gay, Goblins, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Johnlock Roulette, Kidnapping, Labyrinth References, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Mildly Dubious Consent, Moriarty is kind of a dick, Oral Sex, Owls, Pining, Psychological Torture, Riddles, Shapeshifting, Smut, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartswitch/pseuds/hogwartswitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Goblin King has fallen in love with John Watson and visits him in dreams. But the evil wizard who cursed the Goblin King cannot allow that to continue. Will John survive the labyrinth? Or will he become a lost goblin like all the rest? Inspired and loosely based on Jim Henson's "Labyrinth".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to my tribe for encouraging me, proofreading, and hashing out plot ideas. You know who you all are and my life would be utterly dull without your bad influences!

_(Cover art by[MrsDeGoey](http://mrsdegoeyscreations.deviantart.com/)) _

Prologue

Once upon a time, there lived a boy with raven-black curls and eyes the color of the sky. The boy lived in a magnificent kingdom, ruled by his parents, the benevolent king and queen.

Then one day the king and queen grew ill and went to bed. The faces of the people who lived in the castle grew sad and worn. The boy learned to play quietly at all times, so as not to disturb his parents.

A great wizard and his wife stepped forward and offered to help the king and queen. But the wizard, in fact, was an evil wizard, who had cursed the king and queen from afar. With an evil cackle, the wizard cast a killing spell upon the king and queen, then turned his magic upon the kingdom and sent it into darkness.

The castle now sits at the center of a vast labyrinth. Within its walls are goblins of every shape and size who barely remember the lives they led as human beings. Ruling over them is the Goblin King, with raven-black curls and eyes the color of the sky. Controlled by the wizard and his wife, the Goblin King steals the souls of humans from the world above and turns them into more goblin minions to populate his castle. His curse is to remain alone forever and the only way to break the curse, an act of true love.

Now the Goblin King grows lonely as he watches the world above in one of his glass baubles. He watches another, with sun-gold hair and a smile that shines, even in the darkest of worlds. The Goblin King has fallen in love.

Chapter One

Far below the storm-ravaged sky, its expanse marred by bulbous clouds, heavy with rain, a lone knight in battered armor sits atop a white horse. He bears a tattered flag across the expanse of cracked earth as they approach the castle that looms before him. The knight dismounts as they reach the steps leading up to the castle doors, steadying himself with a hand on his steed's flanks. His free hand brushes against the sword sheathed at his side, a small comfort to calm the fear in his heart.

The knight ascends the steps and opens the door, which creaks and groans in protest. More steps greet him inside the castle and the knight begins the long climb. One foot in front of the other, with only the sound of his breath and the beating of his heart to keep him company, the knight scales the stairs leading to the highest tower.

At the end of his climb, the knight finds himself in a simple, tower room. No decorations adorn the wall. There is a single window that overlooks the stormy sky. In the center of the room is a bed, draped with filmy fabric and piled high with pillows. The knight no longer remembers why he came to the castle or what he came to do. He sheds his armor as he approaches the bed, dropping each piece with a hollow clang as he goes. Clad only in his undergarments, the knight stretches out on the bed, sinking into a pile of pillows and plush blankets. Outside the window, he hears the mournful hoot of an owl and the feather-soft beating of wings.

The dark room grows even more still, shadows closing in around the knight. The silence is broken by soft footsteps. The knight sits up and stares into the darkness. The shadows writhe in a serpentine dance until forming the inky curls of the man who steps to the center of the room. He wears nothing but skin-tight black pants and a cape of soft, black feathers that trails behind him. In contrast, his alabaster skin practically glows with an ethereal light. His face carved from stone, all high cheekbones and chiseled jaw. Supernaturally blue eyes stare intensely at the knight.

The knight stands up, remembering the words he means to say. "Through dangers untold," he begins, as the stranger takes a step towards him. "And hardships unnumbered...." The knight's throat grows dry and the words stick in his chest. The man continues his slow approach, the susurration of his cloak against the floor the only sound in the room.

With long, graceful fingers, the man unfastens the cloak of feathers, letting it rustle to the floor. The air is suddenly hard for the knight to breathe. His chest tight, he is unable to tear his eyes from the statuesque man standing before him. The room is warm - too warm - and the knight fumbles to shed his undergarments, forgetting shyness as he finds himself completely naked in front of this magnificent stranger. Electricity sparks behind the stranger's sapphire eyes as he lazily looks the knight up and down, a faint smile playing at his cruel lips.

The knight's face flushes hotter at the attention being paid to his body. Below, he feels his cock hardening. The man approaches him, eyes fixed upon his member. A bulge in the black pants tells the knight he is not the only one feeling aroused. The man draws close to the knight, tracing his exquisitely long fingers down his chest to wrap around his stiff cock. The knight groans and squeezes his eyes shut, unprepared for the waves of arousal that wash over him.

With a light tap to his chest, the man pushes the knight down on the bed. He flicks his fingers and tendrils of vines wrap themselves gently around the knight's wrists and ankles, pinning him down. Cupping the knight's chin in his hand, the man pauses and arches a questioning brow, silently asking permission. The knight nods furiously, unable to refuse the desire pulsing through his veins.

The hard lips soften into a smile and brush the knight's own mouth lightly. Sharp teeth nip playfully at the knight's lips, then his neck. The man trails kisses down the knight's chest, pausing to worry a nipple in his mouth, scraping teeth over the hardened bud and sending sharp stabs of pleasure through his body.

The knight pants and groans out one word, "Hurry," teasing a dark laugh from the man's throat. The man lightly smacks the knight's thigh, cautioning patience. Kisses travel downward until the man is at the knight's center. His long fingers cradle the knight's balls as he tongues the very tip of his cock, wrapping it in velvet warmth.

The knight moans, head thrown back and wishes he could break the vines and bury his hands in the ebony curls brushing his abdomen. The man deepens his attention to the knight's cock, traversing the length with his lips and tongue. Pleasure mounts within the knight until he thinks he cannot take it any longer. As he strains to reach the apex....

***

John Watson bolts upright in his bed, heart threatening to pound from his chest. His white undershirt is damp with sweat. The blankets of his bed are in disarray and he notes with a twinge of embarrassment the damp, sticky patch at his crotch. Taking a few ragged breaths, he drags a shaking hand through his hair. The image of a pale face ringed by sooty curls was already fading from his mind. By his count, this was the fifth time in a month the strange dream had visited his sleep. Each time he woke in a state of frustrated arousal, confused at what the dream might mean.

"It means you have _got_ to get laid, idiot." He muttered to himself as he got out of bed to clean up the mess. The sun outside was just peeking over the horizon, suffusing the darkness with the pink blush of morning. His sister wouldn't stir for another few hours, which left John alone with his thoughts in the stillness of the house.

Just outside his bedroom window an owl hoots once, twice, and then disappears in a flurry of wing-beats.


	2. A Very Long Time Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does a goblin king become a goblin king?
> 
> By being very, very good.

"Sherlock, mummy and daddy are very ill right now. You must play quietly!"

"I _know_ , Mycroft! I just want to look at them."

"Just for a moment, then. They need to sleep."

"Hi, mummy. Hi, daddy. I miss you!"

"Right, now it's time to go play somewhere else."

***

"Shh... be quiet, you must be quiet. Not a sound!"

"What's happening, Mycroft? What's all that noise?"

"Never mind what the noise is, Sherlock. You must promise me you will stay where I put you and be absolutely silent. Can you do that for me?"

"It's dark in the closet!"

"I promise to come back and fetch you in a little while, all right? I promise, Sherlock."

***

The light hurt his eyes when the closet door was wrenched open without warning. Sherlock, face wet with tears and snot from crying, lifted a hand to shield his face and whimpered, "Mycroft?"

"Well, well, what have we here?" The voice that leered out of the darkness belonged to a sullen-faced man with a dark mop of hair. He wore a deep burgundy cloak edged in silver scrolling, hood lowered. An unpleasant smile flitted across the man's face and one brown eye twitched. "Your brother wouldn't give up your hiding place, even when we played with him so nicely. I'm afraid, though, his silence was for naught."

Sherlock shrunk further into the corner of the closet, panic rising in his throat. "Where's Mycroft? Where's mummy and daddy!"

The man's cackle was shot through with ice. "Never you mind. We're going to have fun, the two of us."

"Don't you mean three?" A woman in a black cloak, similar to the man's, her blonde hair twisted up in snake-like curls, appeared behind him. "I want to play, too!"

"Patience, Mary. We've got ages to enjoy this."

The man bent down to bring himself to Sherlock's height and held out a hand. "Don't you want to have fun, Sherlock?" With a twist of his wrist, the man produced a glass ball that fit in the palm of his hand. It glittered and twinkled as the man ran it over his fingers. Sherlock grew still and watched, eyes wide, as images he couldn't quite make out flickered inside the bauble. He reached out a shaky hand towards the ball, but was stopped by the man's free hand wrapping long fingers around his wrist.

"Ah-ah.... not yet. You must be a good boy to play with this toy. Can you be a good boy?"

Gaze still fixed on the swirling bauble, Sherlock nodded.

"Good!" The man trilled, smiling even wider. "Mary, my love, have you the cage?"

Sherlock's eyes twitched to the man's face at the mention of a cage. "Wh-who are you? Where's my mummy and daddy?"

"Shhh... don't you worry about them, little one." The woman, Mary, cooed from over the man's shoulder. "James will take excellent care of you. We're going to have such fun!"

As Mary talked, things around Sherlock began to grow. The man - James - and his wife loomed over Sherlock, their twin grins stretching crazily across their faces, eyes shining with the light of insanity.

"What's going on?!" Sherlock tried to cry out, but instead of his voice, the only thing that he heard was a harsh "wock-wock-wock" that grated out of his throat. In a panic, he jumped around, flapping his wings. _Wings?!_

James Moriarty, a powerful wizard in his own right, scooped up Sherlock, now a magpie with a sleek black-feathered head and a splash of white across his chest and shoulders. Mary held open the door of a cage with strong, steel bars and Moriarty deposited the squawking bird inside.

As they carried the cage out of the room and down the hall, Sherlock saw his parent's mangled bodies lying half in and half out of their bed chamber. His magpie squawks turned to harsh screeches of pain. Moriarty continued down the hall, then descended the stairs that le to the dungeon.

***

Time passes differently for a bird. It crawls on lazy cat paws, the seconds ticking away agonizingly slowly.

Sherlock misses the sunshine. He misses grass and trees and blue skies. He misses his friends and his dog.

But mostly, he misses his parents. And Mycroft.

Moriarty or Mary bring him food, slipping tidbits through the bars of the cage, and fill the attached water dish. They leer at him and tell him to be good; if he is good, if he cooperates, he will be made king. _King of what?_ Sherlock screeches and squawks, beating his wings against the cage until he is exhausted. Moriarty spends the days working an unknown spell in the corner of the dungeon, a cauldron of forbidden ingredients bubbling away. Sherlock can feel the kingdom changing in his bones. It grows darker and stretches out of shape. Occasionally when the door to the dungeon above opens, he hears screams and cries. Once, he thinks he hears Redbeard.

When he sleeps, which is not often, his dreams are blood-spattered and full of anguish.

Time continues to pass interminably.

***

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock, look at me."

"Look at me, dear boy. Open your eyes, or I shall open them for you."

Mary's sing-song voice penetrates the fog of Sherlock's sleep. He blinks open eyes that feel sand-crusted and struggles to lift his head. A heavy weight tugs at each wrist. _My...wrist?_

Turning his head to each side, Sherlock realizes he is human once more. But no longer is he a young boy. His arms are that of a young man, albeit one who has been malnourished and mistreated. He is chained to a wall, held up by his straining wrists. A cloak of black velvet, white feathers splayed at the shoulders, is fastened about his shoulders, but otherwise he is bare-chested. Ragged black leggings sag on his emaciated form. His once lustrous curls are now dull, hanging in long, gnarled knots.

"That's my boy." Mary's red nail-tipped fingers grasp Sherlock's chin firmly and pull his face up to hers. "You don't fight me, do you hear me? You're going to be my good boy, aren't you?"

Sherlock feels tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. "Whyyy..." His voice, unused for who knows how long, scrapes like sandpaper in his throat. "Why are you doing this?"

Mary laughs, a burbling, velvety sound. "Because we can, Sherlock. And because we desire a kingdom... and a king."

From the folds of her cloak, Mary withdraws a slim dagger, its tip glistening with an unknown substance. She leans down to Sherlock's ear. "My dear husband has given me this little toy, which will cut and hurt, but will not leave scars, so I can have hours and hours of fun with you."

Sherlock could feel the wicked smile against his ear, Mary's icy breath causing his chest to hitch and shudder.

"Now. Shall we begin?"

The pain is excruciating and unending. Sherlock's screams echo through the hole in the ceiling, the entrance to the oubliette. Above, Moriarty smiles and laughs as he continues to weave a spell of twisted change upon the kingdom.

***

If I am good, I won't be hurt. If I am good, I can see the sky again. If I am good, I may have a bauble of my own that will show me the world above.

If am good, I can sit on the throne. If I am good, I can play the game. I can steal all the children and make them into my friends. If I am good, Moriarty will show me how to fly with the wings of any bird, not just a magpie. If I am good, they will let me be king.

If I am good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has lived a life of stories. But now, the most important story of all is about to introduce itself.

I have been the goblin king for more years than I can count.

I have watched my kingdom, my home, grow and stretch and twist, becoming something dark and wrong.

My family, everyone I've ever known, is gone, replaced by the creatures that slither and slink in the shadows.

I have sat on this throne, alone, for centuries; I watch the world above pass, the seasons blurring into each other.

My only relief is the moment when I fly, wings outstretched, mind and body transformed into that of a bird. I steal into the night on the hush of feathers to take the unwanted, the unloved, the forgotten; they are so like me in this respect.

I make them my pets; gnarled limbs and grotty faces, bulbous eyes, tufty hair. Inside everyone is a hideous goblin who wishes to be free. I simply make that wish come true and rule over a kingdom of the grotesque creatures.

I am the goblin king, but I have grown tired of the dark.

I wish for the sun to shine upon my face, to feel warmth in my heart.

I have spent millennia granting wishes. "I wish my husband would leave me alone." "I wish my parents would get out of my life." "I wish she were dead."

I have granted all these wishes and more. I am the goblin king.

When will it be my turn?

***

John Watson loved books. He loved how they felt when he cradled them in his hands. He loved the slightly musty smell of pages as he rifled through them with his gentle hands. But more importantly, he loved the journey he took when he read the words on the pages. John Watson lived a very ordinary life, but he traveled everywhere. He traveled to the stark, distant plains of Mars and stood in the stifling heat of an Indian monsoon. He braved the darkest jungles in Africa and soared high above Mount Kilimanjaro. John Watson's life was colored with the sharp, bright paint streaks of stories. A million lives lived within his heart and his head.

Which is why it seemed only natural to say "yes" when he was offered a job in a local bookshop five years ago. Every day, John arrived at work with happiness in his heart to spend his hours amongst the stacks of shelves, communing with kindred spirits who loved stories just as he did.

John Watson lived an ordinary life, but a good one.

Today, however, that came to an end.

***

The thump of a book toppling to the floor pulled John out of his thoughts, causing him to turn from the shelf where he'd been neatening the mess left behind by a group of excitable women on a quest for mystery novels.

The volume on the floor was slim, a deep red that was scuffed with age, with flaking gold around the borders. In swirling letters "The Labyrinth" was stamped in gold across the cover. No author was listed.

John bent and picked up the book, brushing it off, and placed it back in its space on the shelf. He returned to the mystery section and continued straightening the haphazard mess of books.

Behind him came a thump, as a book fell to the floor. When John turned this time, he could swear he heard the skittering of claws and a wheezy snicker of laughter from behind the shelves. "The Labyrinth" rested on the floor once again.

Narrowing his eyes, John retrieved the book once more, returned it to its shelf, pushing firmly to make it stay this time.

He took no more than three steps from the shelf when it thunked to the floor again. Its spine hit in just the right spot, causing the cover to flap open and pages to riffle insistently.

"What the--?" John snatched the book from the floor and held it with both hands, examining the cover for any anomalies that might cause it to be wobbly on a shelf.

The book felt almost alive in his hands, pulsing with a story desperate to be read. John flipped to the title page and felt a sharp sliver of déjà vu crawl up his spine. A sketch of a young man gazed out from the page, pale blue eyes piercing out from a smoky haze of black curls. In his outstretched hand, he held a shining glass bauble. His pale lips curled in a beckoning smile that tugged at something in John's middle.

Flashes of the dream he'd been plagued by for the last month flitted through his mind. His face grew warm as he remembered the most recent one, those pale lips wrapped around his very core, the hands smacking his hips with a delightful sting, nails dragging lightly down his body.

John turned the page, hiding the dark prince's mocking face. The words that leapt off the page were words that were already in John's head. "Through dangers untold... and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City."

He slammed the book closed, hands shaking and mind racing. He hadn't ever seen this book... had he? How did he know these words?

 _The right words_. A whisper upon the air seemed to say.

John reached the return the book to its spot on the shelf... but stopped short, fingers tightening upon the faded cover. Instead, he kept the book, tucking it in his satchel at the front counter, making a note to check his inventory list for the employee price.

Inside his bag, the book shivered, then sighed, in pleasure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The goblin king continues to weave his story.

I see many faces in my baubles. They show me the lost and lonely, the ones who have slipped through the cracks of the world above and belong instead to my world.

I see anguish, regret, sadness, hatred.

I have observed more loss than anyone could imagine.

But when I first saw his face, I felt as though I found the only thing I've ever wanted in this life.

His face is like a hundred shining suns, all crinkled and golden. He is like the steady rock in a stormy ocean, surface still warm from the sunlight. He is a bright star, glittering in the blackest night.

If I were blind, I would still find him; that is how strong of a pull he has on me. He is a magnet and I am iron, inexorably drawn to him as the moth to a flame.

His happiness is my happiness; his sadness, my anguish. I feel his pleasure in every pulsing vein of my body.

I was there when his world collapsed, when all that was good and right was taken from him. I watched him sob as they put his parents in the ground; watched the days and weeks and months tick by as his life altered, the path diverging in a direction he never planned.

I've been there, all this time. Watching, listening. I visit him in his dreams to try to comfort him and bring him the same pleasure that the mere sight of him brings to me.

My heart is permanently entwined with his; the air he breathes gives me life. But he does not know I exist.

The time is growing near that this will change. I will give him what he has given me - an escape from his mundane life. A choice for something more.

***

By end of day, the book in John's bag is long forgotten. He bustles around the bookshop, clearing up from a busy day of customers. His cell phone chirps from its place in his pocket.

M: Going for drinks tonight. You in?

Mike. His best friend. He tries to get John out to socialize several times a week. Sometimes John allows himself to be dragged to the bar or the movies. But most of the time, he knows he is needed elsewhere. Typing quickly, he sends a response. Can't. Have to get home and fix dinner for Harry and me.

Another chirp. Fair enough. Maybe another time.

Three years ago when a drunk driver ended the lives of his parents, John had been on the steady path to a career in medicine. He'd been eyeing military service, as well. But his sister, Harriet, was 14 when it happened, and there'd been no one willing to take her on besides John. He hadn't a second thought about it, then. Now, though... being a parent to someone only a handful of years younger than yourself proved to be challenging. He and Harry regularly butted heads and John despaired as he battled to keep Harry from partying - and drinking - herself to death. Most of his friends got frustrated with his busy work and home schedule. Mike was one of the few who stuck around, even though John rejected 4 out of 5 invitations to be social.

John's one escape, his one small morsel of selfishness, was the pleasure he received from collecting medieval fantasy figurines and painting them. At home, there was an entire table devoted to a diorama of knights and elves, all at miniscule scale and painted in precise detail. Tonight, he takes home a new figure to add to his collection - a jaunty fox astride a fluffy, vaguely dog-like creature. John already plans how he will paint her and where he will put her in his collection. The figurines make him happy and give his mind another place to focus besides what to do about Harry.

***

John can tell when he walks through the front door that it will not be an easy night. From the small bathroom attached to the kitchen he can hear his sister retching violently.

"Harry?" John drops his bag on the counter. "I'm home... everything all right?"

"My head hurts." Harry groans through the bathroom door. "And the room is spinning."

"How much did you drink this time?" John was sure he had found all her hiding places and thrown out every bottle she had stashed away, but he could always count on her friends to give her more.

"Oh, Johnny, don't start!" The toilet flushes and the water in the sink turns on. "Don't suck all the fun out of the house, like normal."

John sighs and mentally counts to ten, trying to keep his temper in check. Three years has taught him that fighting with her does no good. Perhaps if he didn't work such long hours, he could get her clean and back to the sweet girl she'd been before their parents died. Now, it feels like he fights a growing storm every day. One day, the storm will overtake him and flood their lives, drowning them both.  
Harry flounces out of the bathroom, tired eyes ringed in smudged mascara. Her blond hair dull and limp, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. She wears baggy sweat pants and a faded purple tank top that match the chipped paint on her ragged nails.

"God, I could use a cigarette." She leans against the kitchen counter, closing her eyes and bending her head back.

"Well, don't look at me. Can't help you there." John elbows her aside and reaches for his bag to put it in his room.

"Oooh, watcha got there, Johnny?" Quick as a wink, Harry snags the bag's strap and pulls it from John's grip.

"C'mon, now... there's nothing in there for you!" John tries to snatch it back, but Harry turns away and rummages around inside.

"Pfft... more of those silly toys you like. But what's this?" Harry's hand emerges, clutching the faded red book.

John remembers the drawing inside and blushes. "It's nothing! Just a book I brought from work."

"The Labyrinth, eh? Sounds like it could be good." Once upon a time, Harry had been as avid a reader as John, and he now sees the spark is still inside her.

"Hand it over before you ruin it." John held out his hand. "But if you're nice, maybe you can borrow it after I'm done."

Surprisingly, Harry gives John the book. "Why don't you read me some of it?"

"What?" Harry hasn't asked anyone to read aloud to her since she was 9 or 10.

"Read to me. While we eat dinner. We can curl up on the couch... can't we?"

For a moment, John sees Harry as she was, the broken 14 year old girl who loved horses and jump rope and her parents. He swallows the sudden lump in his throat and nods shakily."Yeah. 'Course we can. What sounds good? I think there's some leftover chicken curry in the fridge?"

"Perfect!" Harry grins at her brother. "I'll get the plates."

***

Popping a bite of chicken in his mouth, John flips open to the first page of The Labyrinth and begins reading. As the story progresses, he feels the same déjà vu he'd experienced earlier. The story of a knight who rode out to brave the labyrinth and conquer the king of the goblins unfolds on the pages. As he reaches the penultimate moment of confrontation, the lights in the house flicker on and off several times before remaining off.

"Oh, no!" Groans Harry. "It was just getting good!"

"Don't worry... I've got a flashlight around here somewhere...." John gets up to go to the kitchen and rummage through drawers. "And I'm sure there's a stash of candles, too."

Harry is peering out the window. "I don't think anyone else has lost power in the neighborhood!"

"Must be a breaker outside, then." Mutters John. "I'll have to go out and check."

Setting Harry up with a candle, John takes the flashlight with him and ventures outside in the dark. Curiously, the streetlights around the house are out as well. A rustle of feathers from somewhere in the darkness startles him. He shines the flashlight beam and catches the beady eye of a raven, the light making its feathers shimmer green-black.

"Cr-r-uck." It croaks, hopping a few paces closer to John. "Cr-r-r-ruck."

"Shoo!" John stamps his feet, trying to scare the bird away. It cocks its head at him and ruffles its wings, clearly unimpressed. "Stupid bird."

John turns back to the breaker box, but as he reaches to open it, he hears the raven behind him take off in flight. At the same time, the lights in the street and the house flicker to life, eliciting a cry of triumph from Harry inside. The front door opens and she sticks her head out.

"Whatever you did worked! C'mon, Johnny... come finish the story!"

Shaken and confused, John trudges back to the front door. As he steps inside and pulls the door closed, he thinks he hears his name, whispered on the wind.

"Just my imagination." He mutters, and shuts the door tightly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting, face to face, at last.

An enormous throne dominates the main room of the castle beyond the Goblin City.

Strong vines snake from the ceiling and floor, meeting somewhere in the middle to intertwine and twist around each other, shaping themselves into a sprawling throne of dank and damp.

Goblins cover every surface surrounding the throne. They group together, chattering and growling at each other, gnawing on bones and gristle. Every so often, a rat will make a mad scurry across the floor, a desperate attempt for freedom. No less than three goblins are upon it at once, snarling, snapping, and pulling at hair. It culminates in a protracted squeak from the rat, followed by a sickening crunch of bones. 

Sherlock reclines sideways in the throne, his gray-clad legs thrown haphazardly over the arms of the throne. Ankles crossed, shiny black heeled boots that reach halfway up his calves tap against one another. His ruffled white shirt gapes at the neck, revealing a pale expanse of bony skin, not touched by sunlight in what seems like forever. Sherlock rests his head back, eyes closed. In one hand he lazily turns one of his baubles this way and that, rolling it over the knuckles of his long-boned fingers, then turning it back to rest on his palm. In the other hand he clutches a riding crop, striking it lightly against his thigh. Though he appears serene, his mind is awhirl with thoughts of John; his smile, like a thousand suns peeking through storm clouds, his eyes like whirlpools of dark water... in one light they are clearest blue, in another a murky brown flecked with gold. A smile plays at Sherlock's lips as he envisions what he would do to John to turn those eyes dark with arousal.

"Are we enjoying ourselves?" The voice emerges first from the darkness, followed by Moriarty's pale face, his deep-set eyes with their shark-infested depths staring directly at Sherlock. His cloak is made of shadows that ooze from the walls, curling about his arms and legs as he steps toward the throne.

Sherlock's eyes pop open, the panic rising in his chest as he scrambles to sit straight in the throne, limbs thrumming with nervous energy. His voice cracks painfully as he hastens to answer. "M-my Lord. What a surprise!"

Moriarty grins, his elongated canines making it seem as though he has fangs. "Your majesty." He bows deeply, his shadow-cloak writhing even more frantically. "Forgive the surprise visit, but I came to see if all was well in my kingdom."

"V-very well. Yes, very well." Sherlock swallows, tries to calm himself. "Was there any doubt?"

Moriarty pulls a sorrowful face, his lips stretching comically into a pout. "I wondered, dear Sherlock, why you have not brought any new goblins to my kingdom?"

The fear is like a handful of needles, prickling up Sherlock's spine. He knows. His heart is in his throat. He grips the crystal bauble with the hand not clutching the riding crop, digging his nails painfully into the glass surface.

"Oh, that...." Sherlock tries to sound casual. "There are so many goblins...."

"Never enough, my liege. You know that. We must fill the kingdom with so many lost souls."

"Of course, of course." Sherlock nods, woodenly. His tongue is turning to dust; soon he won't be able to answer.

"I know why there are no new goblins." Mary appears from behind the throne, threading her shadow-draped arm over Sherlock's chest. Her wicked smile grows wide at the whimper of fear that escapes Sherlock's throat.

She takes the bauble from Sherlock's hand and tosses it effortlessly back and forth between her two hands. The ball spins faster, faster, until Sherlock is afraid it will fly away and shatter into a million pieces.

"Our king has fallen in love." Mary purrs into Sherlock's ear, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand to attention.

She tosses the bauble at Moriarty, who - rather than catching it in his hands - allows the whorl of shadows to rise up and cushion its flight, bringing it to eye level. The ball's surface flickers; Sherlock cannot see what it shows from this distance, but he doesn't have to see to know John's sad face is gazing out at Moriarty. He wishes he could leap from the throne and grab Moriarty by his neck. How dare he look upon John's lovely face with those eyes that only know cruelty?

"Wellllll." Moriarty drawls, the word starting high and ending on a guttural, throaty growl. "The Goblin King has found his heart? Does he believe he can break the curse? But who would love a creature like you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's face burns, unshed tears stabbing like glass shards at the corners of his eyes.

Mary's hand curls languidly over his cheek and cup his chin. Her fingers press into the flesh of his cheeks, harder, the pressure worsening until Sherlock gasps from the pain. She forces his face to hers, their eyes meeting. "You're not playing by the rules, Sherlock." Her voice is the hiss of a poisonous snake. "You know what happens when you don't play by the rules."

Sherlock feels the scars that are not there, throbbing and aching as much as they did when they were fresh cuts.

Mary strokes her free hand over Sherlock's shoulder and down his arm, covering his hand in hers. She slips the riding crop from his stiff fingers and straightens up, letting go of Sherlock's face. Her smile stretches impossibly wide, eyes dancing. Then, quick as lightning, the riding crop sweeps through the air, cracking painfully against Sherlock's cheek and knocking him back into the throne. Sherlock cries out, hand flying to touch the excruciatingly tender skin. He can feel the mark left by the crop, but also feels it fading, healing instantly like all the small tortures Mary exerts upon him. The pain is still there, rocketing through his head.

"I'm sorry!" He gasps. He scrambles forward, falling to his knees at Mary's feet and burying his face in the shadows of her dress. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll be good... I'll be your good boy."

Mary squats down level with him and strokes his hair, making a shushing noise with her lips. "Yes, you will be my good boy, Sherlock. You will complete the task at hand, won't you? Otherwise, you know what will happen, yes?"

Sherlock bites back and a sob and nods his head vigorously.

"Good. Be our strong Goblin King now... be the man we raised you to be."

Mary rose and returned to Moriarty's side, threading her arms around his chest and nuzzling at his neck.

"You have one day, Sherlock." Moriarty drawls. "Don't disappoint me."

They were gone just as quickly as they'd arrived. The chatter of goblins resumes and Sherlock leans heavily against the base of the throne, finally allowing his unshed tears to fall freely.

***

"Harry, I'm home!" John locks the door behind him and sags against it for a moment. It was a long day full of trying customers. He wants dinner, a cup of tea, and an evening in front of the telly, in that order.

No answer from Harry, but John hears a thump from upstairs. "Harry?"

He mounts the stairs, dragging his bag behind him. The thumps are coming from his room. Oh, no. He groans inwardly. He pushes his bedroom door open slowly and finds his sister flopped half on the floor, half on the bed, hair falling haphazardly from her ponytail. She glances up at John as the door opens and giggles drunkenly, lifting an almost-empty bottle of vodka. God dammit... which of her friends gave her that?

"Johnny!" She crows. "I came in... I came...." She swivels her head from side to side, before her eyes fall on the slim red book now on John's bed. "The book! I came to read--" She hiccups, the resumes, "--the book."

Wordlessly, John kneels at Harry's side, helping her off the floor. He retrieves the book and places it back on his shelf, then attempts to take the bottle of vodka from Harry.

"No!" Harry grips the bottle tighter. "I'm not finished!"

"I think you were finished a long time ago. You're not even old enough to be drinking this, Harry!"

"Stop bossing me! I'm almost an adult!" Harry is on her feet now, throwing a proper tantrum.

Brittle anger snapping, John grabs the bottle of vodka and yanks at it. "Then maybe you should start acting like an adult!"

Harry's grip on the bottle finally breaks and John stumbles back a few paces. Harry, however, already off balance, goes careening in the other direction and landing with a crack against John's diorama of figurines. Little figures of knights and ladies, elves and goblins, go flying every which way and the table shudders under her weight. Harry chortles and rolls off the table, flouncing on the floor below. She idly picks up a knight whose lance is now snapped in half and stares glassily at it.

John, both hands fisted in his hair, stares horrified at the mess. "Oh, Harry." He whispers.

Harry looks up at her brother and smiles crookedly, holding up a tiny goblin figure. "Look, Johnny. The goblins have come to take you away!"

John's nostrils flare and he gulps several breaths before he's able to say anything. "I am going downstairs now. And you--" He points a stern finger at Harry. "You will take a few moments and sober up immediately. We are going to have a talk."

Without further conversation, John stomps downstairs, the rage turning his thoughts red as he paces the living room carpet and tries to quell the homicidal anger whirling inside him.

In the back of his mind, a thought curls 'round and 'round. You would be better off without her. It whispers tantalizingly.

All it takes is one simple phrase. Just one. You know what it is, don't you?

John shakes his head, trying to rid his mind of the voice.

Twelve little words and she's gone, out of your life. You could do so much without her, you know. What has she ever done for you? She just tears you down.

John has stopped pacing, the fingers of his left hand curling and uncurling. He is transfixed by the voice as its whispers creep into every corner of his mind.

She'll be your death one day. You'll be in the ground with your parents. But say your right words and you will be free!

John's concentration is broken by Harry thumping down the stairs, a contrite expression etched across her face. She opens her mouth to speak, but John silences her with a look.

He stares at her, his sister. Gone are the pigtails and face smudged with dirt from playing outside. Her ribbons and overalls were long ago replaced with too-tight shirts and earrings halfway around her ear. John no longer glimpses innocence in his sister's eyes; they are jaded and pained, just as they have been since their parent's death.

John clears his throat and tilts his head, taking in one last look. "I wish...." A hum of sorrow throbs in his throat. "I wish the goblins would come and take you away. Right now."

Confusion flits across Harry's face for one moment, less time than it takes to blink, then her eyes roll back in her head and she collapses backward, head bouncing softly on the carpet.

John's trance is broken. "Harry!" He rushes to his sister's side, cradling her head and feeling for a pulse at her wrist. "Harry, wake up!"

Though Harry is breathing and her pulse is strong and steady, her body is limp and unresponsive. John shakes her shoulders, fumbles above him for the phone to dial emergency services. Alcohol poisoning. John tries to reassure himself. It's got to be. It's the only answer.

Before he can dial the number, the front window explodes inward in a storm of glittering glass. Howling wind sweeps inside, whipping the curtains into a frenzy. John shields his face from the glass and hunches over his sister's body, trying to protect them both. The wind's howl grows louder and now the lights flicker madly. Through the window, a massive barn owl, its feathers unnaturally black, flies into the house. It grows larger, wings expanding, changing into arms. Its body stretches and becomes human. A cascade of feathers lengthens into a sleek cloak. The face elongates and changes contour until John is staring dumbfounded into a face he remembers from dreams. The wind calms and every light in the house goes dark. The only light comes from a glowing bauble the stranger holds out to John.

John stands, staring at the pale man from his dreams. "You're him...aren't you?"

"I've brought you a gift." The stranger's voice is deep and velvety, caressing the very air around them. He stretches out the hand holding the crystal and offers it to John.

"You're the..." John can't believe his eyes, but his mind tells him this is really happening. "...goblin king, aren't you?"

A small nod of assent, a soft smile playing at his lips. The man's dark curls glitter with pieces of glass. "It's a crystal, nothing more. But if you turn it this way, it will show you your dreams." He rolls the glass ball across his knuckles, spinning it and causing a flicker of images too quick for the eye to focus on to flit across its surface.

"If it's all the same." John tries to tear his eyes from the bauble unsuccessfully. "I want my sister back. You took her, somehow, didn't you?"

The goblin king stops spinning the crystal, freezing on an image of Harry, face frightened, tears rolling down her cheeks. She is somewhere dark, somewhere between the worlds, trapped. "What's said is said."

"I didn't mean it." John whispers.

"Oh, you didn't?" The bauble is now hidden, tucked away in the folds of the feathered cape.

"Please... just tell me where she is?"

"You know very well where she is."

"Bring her back... please... bring her back?"

"John." His name comes out of the stranger's throat in a purr. He glides closer, stepping behind John, trailing a soft piece of silk across John's neck and causing goose pimples to cover his arm. "Go back to your room. Play with your toys. Forget about your sister."

"I...can't." John's mouth has gone dry and the words come out like a rusty hinge needing oil.

"This isn't a life for someone like you, John." The goblin king wraps the scarf around John's neck. "You're not an ordinary man. You're special. Forget the girl."

"I appreciate what you're offering, I really do." John tries to turn around to face him, but the goblin king holds him still with the scarf and a hand resting on his shoulder. "But I need my sister back. She's scared. She needs me."

"John. Don't defy me." The voice has an edge of steel now and the scarf is now a snake, hissing and writhing at John's neck.

He cries out, flapping his hands at his neck, jumping back. The snake, transformed into a scarf once more, falls lazily to the floor and is snatched by a quick, darting creature that snickers mischievously as it runs away.

"You're no match for me." The goblin king is in front of John again. He waves his hand and the house is gone. 

They stand on a cliff overlooking a massive labyrinth, its crumbling walls twisting at unnatural angles. The walls appear to writhe and pulse, an ever changing maze of confusion. At the center of the labyrinth a black, twisted castle rises into the storm-darkened sky. John knows this castle, has been inside its walls in dreams. His face heats as he remembers what the goblin king did to him inside the castle.

"She's there in my castle. Do you still want to look for her?"

"Is that the castle beyond the goblin city?" John feels as though he is trapped in his dreams - or perhaps within the pages of a book.

"Turn back, John. Turn back before it's too late." A note of sadness creeps into the goblin king's voice.

John lifts his chin, gathering courage. "It doesn't look that far."

"It's further than you think." The goblin king stands close to John, his lips at his ears, whispering with his velvet voice. "Time is short. You have 13 hours to solve my labyrinth, before your sister becomes one of us... forever."

At that last word, the goblin king fades into nothing, the echoes of his voice the last to disappear. John is left alone in the stark landscape of the underworld. The air whispers around him, caressing his skin and speaking one last sentence: Such a pity.

John stands at the edge of the precipice, staring hard at the castle, his final destination.

"Well. Come on, feet."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets some of the inhabitants of the labyrinth and takes the first steps of his journey.

Sherlock paces in front of his throne, alternately shaking and wringing his hands. Around him, the goblins lounge and tussle in the corners. Sherlock's breath comes fast and he mutters to himself as he paces.

"I took her. I took the girl and now John's in my labyrinth. What do I do? How do I fix this? Think, brain, think!"

He stops, pressing the heels of his palms against his temple. John's face fills his mind, eyes glazed with the trance-like state Sherlock induced in him. Sherlock resumes pacing, thoughts traveling too fast for him to keep up.

"Got to protect John. But I can't let them know... then they'll just stop him. How? How do I protect him without them finding out?"

Half-mad with anguish, Sherlock collapses in the throne, cradling his head in his hands. The goblins continue to grizzle and whine around him as Sherlock tries to think.

***

The land surrounding the labyrinth is nearly barren, its surface marred only by a few scraggly trees and a lakebed, long dried up. John picks his way through scattered rocks and boulders, the labyrinth looms ahead, walls impossibly high. Its walls are smooth, no sign of any entrance. John stops, places his hands on his hips.

"How am I supposed to get through the labyrinth if I can't get in?" He grouses. The air shivers with unshed raindrops and the slate-grey clouds roil above him.

John is angry. At himself, at his sister, at the goblin king, at this impossible situation. For the tenth time in an hour, John wonders if this is some bad dream, or perhaps something happened and he and Harry are unconscious and hallucinating. Maybe I'm dead. He thinks, pinching his arm to test the theory; it stings. Nope. Still alive. Which means I can die.

John walks along the edge of the labyrinth, tracing the wall with his fingers, feeling for any invisible grooves or bumps. Up ahead, something shimmers and floats in the air. When he gets closer, John realizes it's a glowing fairy, hair floating around its head in a halo and wings beating frantically.

"Woooow." John whispers, reaching out a hand to the fairy. "Hello, there."

The fairy covers her mouth as she lets out a tinkling giggle, pure as a bell. Then she brandishes sharp claws and opens her mouth wide, revealing two rows of sharp teeth. She clamps down hard on John's finger with a tiny growl.

"Shit! Ow!" John shakes his finger frantically, dislodging the fairy and sending it flying with a high-pitched "Squeeeeee!" noise, then a plop as it landed on the ground ten feet away.

From behind one of the gnarled trees, a short man steps out, pulls a pesticide sprayer and douses the fairy in something that causes it to squeal and burst into flames, reducing to a pile of black ash in seconds. "Gotcha!" The man growls. He is only as tall as John's waist and wears a grey cloak with the hood pulled up. A mask of grey cloth stretches over his mouth, so the only thing visible are sharp brown eyes that now assess John.

"Oi. It's you." The man pulls the cloth from his face and pushes his hood back. John stumbles back at the man's grotesque face. Burn scars cover half his face, causing one of his eyes to be permanently droopy. His nose has a chunk bitten out of it, and the scarred half of his mouth stretches up in a fixed smile. Long silver hair hangs to his shoulders, thin strands of braids worked in throughout. The man takes a few steps and John can see he has a limp.

The disfigured stranger gestures to his face. "I know, I know, my face is so beautiful to look at, it steals your words away. Happens every time."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare." John forces himself to look away.

"S'alright, I'm used to it. I'm Greggle. Groundskeeper 'round these parts. And you're John."

"How'd you know that?"

"Err...." Greggle looks uncomfortable. "I just know things, that's all."

"Well, if you're so smart, where's the door to the labyrinth?"

"Why you wanna go in there?" Greggle glares at John.

"Never mind that, I just need to get in. Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The door!" John resists the urge to kick Greggle as far as he threw the fairy.

"What door?" Greggle examines his fingernails casually.

"Arrrrgh!" John yells, tossing his hands up. "It's useless asking you anything!"

"Not if you ask the right questions."

John freezes, mind searching for the right words. "Okay. How do I get into the labyrinth?"

"That's more like it." Greggle limps over to the labyrinth wall and raps it with his knuckles, two quick taps, three slow taps, then five more quick. The brick wall folds out upon itself, forming a stone arch leading into the labyrinth. "You...uh...really going in there?"

"I'm afraid I have to." John fixes a determined look on his face. "Now... left or right?"

Greggle shrugs and crosses his arms. "Don't matter. You ain't gonna make it through anyway."

"You're a lot of help."

"Not my job." Greggle sniffs. "I'm just here to keep the place up."

John glances around him at the dying trees and cracked earth. "Not really doing the best at that, are you?"

Greggle pins him with his good eye. "You should try getting things to grow around here. Ever since those two meddlers came to the kingdom and brought upon all this misery and created that--" He gestures to the labyrinth. "--my job has been impossible. I'm only one man, you know. Reduced to no more than a creature by those two. It weren't my job to do all this!"

Greggle stops abruptly, as if he knows he's revealed too much. John, curiosity piqued, asks, "What do you mean 'meddlers'?"

Shuddering, Greggle shakes his head. "I ain't sayin' their names. Who knows where they are or who they're watching. It's that wizard and his wife. Oh, they're a piece of work. Coming to the kingdom, killing the good king and his wife... broke my heart. And what they did to poor Sherlock...what they did to all of us."

John's brow furls, confused. "Who is Sherlock?"

"Nope. I've said too much already." Greggle glances nervously around. "If I don't keep moving...."

"No, please." John grabs at Greggle's arm. "I want to know more. Please tell me?"

"You're here to reach the center of the labyrinth, ain't you?" Greggle shakes off John's hand, but doesn't turn to leave again.

John nods. "The goblin king took my sister and I've got to find her. She's all the family I have."

Greggle shakes his head sadly. "You've got a long journey ahead. Time runs differently in that labyrinth. An hour could stretch to be as long as a day... even a week. And a tough fight at the end. Pray that you don't run into the wizard or that wife of his. Pray you only meet Sherlock."

"But who is Sherlock?" John cries out in frustration.

"Why, Sherlock and the goblin king are one and the same." The answer floats to John on the air, for Greggle has faded from sight, disappearing fully with a small puff of wind.

"Sherlock." John whispers, rolling the name around his tongue. There's more to this story, he thinks. And maybe if I find some answers in the labyrinth, it will help me get Harry back.

"Time runs differently, eh?" John mutters, stepping over the threshold and into the labyrinth. "Well, then. Let's make the most of it."

He chooses to turn left and jogs lightly down the first corridor. The walls remain smooth and stretch forward in an endless, unbroken line. "That's odd." John pants. "There aren't any turns or corners... how is this supposed to be a labyrinth?"

He stops in frustration, turning his head right and left. Other than vines and branches sticking out here and there, the labyrinth is an endless corridor, no openings marring its surface. The walls are damp and covered with moss; creepy-crawlies slither in and out of cracks in the stone.

"Hello, dearie." A high-pitched voice from somewhere slightly below John drifts up to him. When he glances down, he sees a small, green worm, tufts of brown hair sticking out on either side and on top of her head. Black glasses perch in front of wide, blinking eyes.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" John is near hysterical laughter. First a disfigured dwarf and now a talking worm? Right, this has to be a drug-fueled dream. Did Harry slip me something psychedelic?

"I said hello, dearie. Would you like a cuppa? Just tea, mind... I'm not a maidservant."

"Oh...er... no, thank you. Do you live here? What's your name?"

"Yes, yes." The worm nods vigorously. "I'm Martha. Been here since the labyrinth sprang up and before that... well, that was so long ago."

"You were here before the labyrinth? Were you always a... worm?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no. I helped the queen! I was her lady in waiting. So very long ago."

"Do you know the way through the labyrinth?"

Martha shakes her head sadly. "Me? No... I'm just a worm now. Won't you come inside, have a cup of warm tea? I could even get out the biscuits, just this once."

"No, thank you. I've got to solve this labyrinth. There aren't any turns or openings or anything!"

"Oh, dearie, the labyrinth is full of them! You just aren't seeing them."

"What? Where are they?"

"There's one right in front of you, dearie."

"No, there isn't." John hadn't been in the labyrinth long and he already wants to tear his hair out.

"Of course there is. Trying walking through it, you'll see what I mean. Sure you won't come in for a cuppa and a nice chat? It's been so long since I had a chat."

"I'm sorry, I can't. What do you mean, 'walk through it'?"

"Go on, then. Things aren't always what they seem around here. You'd do best to remember that, dearie."

Holding his arms in front of him, John steps towards the labyrinth wall, one step, then two. Expecting his hands to meet the resistance of the wall, he is surprised to find them go right through, and suddenly he can see the opening in the labyrinth, plain as day. "Hey, you're right! Thank you! That was actually helpful!" John turns to go left again.

"Wait, dearie! Don't go that way!"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" John pokes his head around the corner.

"Never go that way!"

"Oh... thanks! You've been so kind, really!" John turns and heads in the opposite direction.

Martha Hudson, former lady-in-waiting to the queen turned labyrinthian worm, makes a tutting noise and shakes her head. "If he had kept on going that way, he'd have gone straight to the castle."

***

The minutes tick by, agonizingly slow. Sherlock holds one of his baubles, staring at the anguished face of Harry Watson.

"John's coming." He whispers. "He's coming to save you, but I can't make it easy for him. I'm sorry. He's got to find his own way to me and make his own decision. If I don't make it hard for him, they will."

Heart overflowing with sadness, Sherlock opens his hand, conjuring a butterfly with shimmery purple wings. It flutters in his palm and Sherlock blows lightly, scattering the butterfly into smaller butterflies, an entire, glittering storm of them, swishing out of the castle and in the direction of John.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock tightens his finger on the bauble and wills it to show him John's face. "I'm so sorry."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John travels ever deeper into the Labyrinth.

_Then_

The cool, wet cloth feels good on my face. The hand guiding it is gentle, so I know it can't be Mary's. A splash -- the sound of the cloth being dipped into a bucket -- and the cloth returns, moving over my shoulders, down my chest. Oh, that feels good.

Eyes are swollen, painful to open. But I must see who is here. Tongue swollen, too.

"Who?" Is that my voice? Is that what I sound like now?

"Shhh, Master Holmes. Best be quiet and let me work."

My throat feels like I swallowed shards of glass. "Mr. Greggle? Is that you?"

I slit my eyes open as wide as they will go. The man standing before me is a comically grotesque version of Mr. Greggle, our groundskeeper, who was always kind to me. This Mr. Greggle is a disfigured, lumpy creature, as though someone took the old Mr. Greggle and smashed him up like a ball of clay.

"I'm here, Master Holmes. Be quiet now."

"Where..." My heart pounds as I prepare to ask a question I dread. "Where's Mary?"

Mr. Greggle glances furtively around, hunching his shoulders. "Never you mind. She's not here now. I wish I could take those awful chains off your wrist, but I can't. This is all I can do."

I nod. My strength is ebbing from my limbs. My eyes become too heavy to keep open and I feel myself drifting.

***

Later. A spoon at my lips turns out to be chicken broth. I want to gulp down as much as I can, but Mr. Greggle makes me go slowly. Still, after a few bites I am retching, stomach roiling. Apologies flowing from my lips because now Mr. Greggle must clean up the mess. I settle for a sip of water instead.

***

I can keep food down now. Small amounts, only, as that is all that won't be missed. Mr. Greggle tells me I must call him just Greggle now. He tells me of the labyrinth that surrounds the kingdom now. He tells me of the horrible things that live within its walls. They visit me at night in my dreams, gnashing teeth and slashing claws, until I wake myself with my gasping screams.

***

Mary says I am ready to be unchained.

I am not ready.

I'm scared.

Greggle says he will help me if he can.

***

_Now_

I hold the bauble close to Greggle's face and show him John.

"You must help me, Greggle."

"Master Holmes, I have always been at your service, ever since your parents...." Greggle trailed off, staring at his feet. "What you ask is a great danger."

"I know it is, Greggle. But I am begging you. I cannot be easy on John, not with the watchful eyes upon me. But he must get through the labyrinth."

"What makes him so special?"

"Were I to have a hundred years, I could not list all of the qualities that make this man special. Please trust me when I say that he is the one. He will save us all, if only we can get him through the labyrinth."

"And you're sure you can't hold back on the obstacles you send?"

"I can't, you know that."

Greggle nods, scowling. "I'll do what I can, then... no promises."

"Thank you, Greggle. I owe you so much."

"You just make sure you're not caught. I've invested too much of my life making sure you're safe to lose you now."

"I'll be careful. And Greggle? Please... if you talk to John... please help him see me? Really see me, I mean."

"You ask a great deal of a humble groundskeeper and footman, Master Holmes."

"Only because I am confident you can achieve it all."

"I will try."

"Thank you, Greggle."

***

John is sure he has passed by this wall at least three times. He stands, hands on hips, and assesses the situation.

"This is not working, Watson." He chides himself. "Think."

He glances around and spots a white-ish rock resting on the ground. Picking it up and scraping it across the stone floor of the labyrinth, he's delighted to find that it leaves a mark. He draws an arrow pointing right, and then heads in that direction. He stops at frequent intervals to draw arrows. What he doesn't notice is the chattering curses of a tiny sprite who angrily pokes his head from beneath the flagstones, furious at the man who is marring his home. The sprite grunts and hefts the stones up, turning them so that John's marks are now incorrect.

The air in the labyrinth is stagnant and swampy. Large insects buzz around the vines that snake over the walls and onto the ground. The path is uneven as roots attempt to supplant the stones that pave the labyrinth. John has lost track of how long he's been walking. His feet ache and his brow is sweaty. He wishes he had other clothes besides the oatmeal jumper and brown corduroy pants that he currently wears. His stomach growls and his mouth feels parched.

Bending to mark another stone, he discovers it is already marked... but pointing in the opposite direction that he's heading. "Someone's changed my marks! Oh, that's not fair at all. That's playing dirty!"

John throws the rock, listening to it ping as it hits the wall of the labyrinth and bounces. He flops onto the ground, back against a tree that has grown up the side of the wall. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. _Just a few minutes._ He promises himself.

A tickle at his hand makes him open his eyes. A wispy purple butterfly has landed on his index finger. He lifts it slowly to eye level.

"I've never seen a butterfly that looks like this." He whispers to himself.

Another butterfly lands on his wrist, and another joins the one crawling across his fingers. Soon both hands are covered in fluttering butterflies. John laughs in delight. His hands prickle at the feel of their tiny legs.

Actually... the prickling is getting worse. _That doesn't feel right_. More butterflies join the others, now crawling up his arm. He feels a flutter at his cheek and knows that there are now butterflies on his shoulder. Now they are landing on his face. Where their legs touch, his skin prickles. His eyes are growing heavy.

"Wharrrr...." His tongue is too big for his mouth. He can't get any words out. _No...no...NO! Not fair!_

The butterflies continue landing, covering his legs and feet. John feels himself slide to the ground. All light is blotted out as butterflies cover his eyes and face. The labyrinth tilts and John's eyes roll backwards.

Then...darkness.

A pinprick of light; John is floating in nothing. He can hear crying - Harry!

"Harry!" He calls out, peddling his arms and legs slowly, trailing starlight in his wake. "I'm coming, Harry!"

The crying gets louder. John swims towards the pinprick of light. It is a full length mirror that shows his reflection, distorted beyond recognition. He reaches out and touches the mirror's surface, sending ripples out from the center. He slides his hands in first, then the rest of him follows.  
***

John is sitting on the floor of playroom, a colorful rug beneath him. The walls are lined with shelves that hold books and toys. Before him, a boy with dark curls and brilliant blue eyes sits playing with a toy knight and horse. His skin is pale and he is all gangly arms and legs.

"That's mine." John says. It is his favorite figurine from his diorama. He worries the boy will break it.

The boy smiles and holds the figurine out to John. "You can have a turn."

John takes the figurine, not sure what to do with it. "Is this your room?"

Nodding, the boy has a stuffed rabbit in his hands now. He shakes it comically in front of John's face. "We have all kinds of toys here."

"Where are your parents?"

"They're sick. We have to be quiet so they can sleep."

"Oh." John looks down at the knight and horse. The lance is snapped in half now. _Did I do that? No. Harry did. Where's Harry?_

"I should go." John looks around for a door.

"No, stay! There's nowhere else you have to be."

"I need to... I need to...." John can't remember what he needs to do.

"It's only forever. That's not very long. You can stay forever, can't you?"

"No." John shakes his head. "No, I have to be somewhere else I just... can't remember where."

The boy takes his hand. "C'mon! We'll play hide and seek! You hide first!"

John stumbles to his feet. The boy covers his eyes and starts counting. There is a closet door where there wasn't a door before. John opens it and steps through.

***

He is in a brilliant garden. The air is fragrant from the massive array of flowers. A man and a woman sit at a table drinking lemonade while they watch two boys - one younger with black curls, the other a little older with a shock of red hair and freckles. The man and woman wave at John, beckon him to come sit and drink lemonade.

"I wouldn't if I were you." A grey-haired man who looks oddly familiar grumbles. He is pulling weeds from one of the flower beds. "Today's their last day."

"What do you mean?"

"Tonight they'll go to bed early, feeling ill. That's the last time we will see them alive and healthy."

"Who are they?"

"Doesn't matter anymore. Where are you going, John?"

"I...." John spins around. Something is nagging him at the back of his mind. "I don't know."

"Maybe you should wake up."

"What?"

"Wake up."

"Wake up, John."

"JOHN!"

***

John's eyes snap open and he gasps for breath. He flails his limbs, trying to sit up. His heart races. His mind flashes with images - the man and woman, the boys, the playroom, the darkness. Greggle is standing over him. The ground around him is littered with the carcasses of the purple butterflies. Johns eyes, wild with panic, roll around in his head. He can't catch his breath.

Greggle grasps his shoulders. "Breathe with me, John. Look into my eyes. Ignore everything else and look at me. Breathe. That's it. In... and out. Feel better?"

John nods, feeling the panic slide out of his body. "H-how long was I asleep?"

"Not sure, but by my count, it's been three days since I helped you into the labyrinth."

"THREE DAYS?" The panic returned. John tried to get up, but found his legs still tingled with whatever poison the butterflies had injected into his skin. "That's impossible!"

"I told you before, time runs differently in the labyrinth."

"Then it's too late. I've failed." John says despondently.

"Listen to me: Time. Runs. Differently." Greggle withdraws a watch on a chain from his pocket. "You were given the standard 13 hours? Then if my watch is correct - and I assure you it is - you still have 9 1/2 hours to go."

John drags his fingers through his hair. "I don't understand this place!"

"I am going to tell you something very important, and I want you to keep it in mind at all times. Nothing about the labyrinth is what it seems. That goes for the creatures you find in here." Greggle eyes him meaningfully. "If you want to make it through the labyrinth, you must remember: sometimes the way forward is the way back."

"I have no idea what that means."

"I can't spell it out anymore; you have to find your own way."

John feels even more frustrated. "This isn't even a fair challenge if this Sherlock is going to keep throwing impossible things in my path! He's truly foul!"

Greggle grasps John's shoulder to get his attention. "Remember: things aren't always what they seem in the labyrinth."

"But I still don't understand."

"Use that brain of yours, John!" Greggle taps a finger at John's temple. "Observe."

With that last word, Greggle once again disappears, melting into the tree. It was as if he'd never been there at all. John sits for a few moments, cradling his head in his hands and wallowing in frustration. Finally, he pulls himself to his feet with a grunt.

"The way forward is the way back." He mutters. "And things aren't always as they seem. What does it even mean?"

In the back of his mind, John sees a waif of a little boy running in the garden with his older brother, laughing. A dog with deep auburn hair leaps and barks at their feet, joyful. _What is the point of showing me this?_ John wonders.

His heart aches for the little boy, whose parents apparently died shortly after that. The boy was left all on his own. _I know how that feels._

"The way forward..." John takes an experimental step backwards, glancing over his shoulder. Another step. The wall behind him shimmers. One more step. The wall collapses and John is through to the other side. Turning around, he finds himself in an oval courtyard. Ahead lay two identical doors. Guarding each door is a stone gargoyle.

John, happy to be back on track, takes a step towards the doors.

***

The murky depths of the cauldron swirl and reveal the man approaching the Gargoyle Doors.

"He wasn't supposed to get that far!" Mary hisses.

"I know, my love. I know." Moriarty glares down at the man.

"It's Sherlock. He must be trying to trick us."

"He wouldn't dare."

"I want to punish him, darling. Please let me punish him."

"No!" Moriarty snaps, holding up a hand. "He knows better than to stray off course. We must trust him to do as he's told. This man is just smarter than we anticipated."

"What do we do, love? We must stop him. He cannot be allowed to make it through the labyrinth. He cannot be allowed to know Sherlock's true feelings about him."

Moriarty points at the gargoyles that guard the doors. "What do we do? I think we should make things interesting. It's time for us to join the game, Mary, my love."

Mary's smiles wickedly and cackles.

Taking up a crystal tipped staff, Moriarty chants a few words of a spell and stirs the cauldron with the staff. The shadows around him gather closer. He and Mary are now made of shadows and they swirl and writhe, then swoop into the cauldron, leaving behind an empty room. The cauldron continues to bubble away happily.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John solves some riddles, chooses unwisely, and receives a helping hand.

The gargoyle on the right has the smug face of a cat, tiny fangs poking from its mouth and whiskers poke out on ech side of the face, ending in curlicues. Behind it extends stone wings tipped in one sharp claw. Beneath its stone paw rests a black orb, swirling with shimmering dust.

On the left, a stone griffin stands, its front claw clutching a heavy mace. Its beak looks sharp and stone-feathered wings stretch from its back.

Each stands guard in front of a door, their countenances making it clear that one cannot simply walk through a door.

John surveys the two stone guards and wonders what he must do to pass them. The air around him buzzes with insects. He edges closer to the cat gargoyle and inspects it, first from one angle, then from another. He turns to the griffin gargoyle and reaches out a hand to touch it lightly. At his touch, the griffin's stone wings shake and the gargoyle springs to life, snapping at John's hand. He snatches it back just in time to escape losing a limb.

The griffin hisses at him. "Trespasser!"

From the right, the stone cat hisses and yowls as it comes to life. "Intruder!"

John backs away, hands up in a defensive position. "Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle either of you."

The griffin ruffles its wings and clacks its beak, the stone grinding together in such a way that sends shivers up John's spine.

"Please, I'm just trying to get through the labyrinth. Do I need to go through one of these doors?"

The cat, tail twitching, preens with one stone paw. "One of these doors..." She purrs, her voice like a brook burbling over river rock, "...leads to the center of the labyrinth."

The griffin screeches, flapping his wings with a heavy whump-whump-whump. "And one of the doors leads to certain death!" His voice is like gravel being poured on the surface of a frozen lake.

"W-which one is which?" John asks, not daring to get too close to either of the stone creatures.

"We can't tell you that." The cat replies, laughing derisively.

"Why not?"

"That's not how we play the game." The griffin hisses, stamping its claws.

"Well, then. How can I go through one of the doors?"

"Answer our riddles correctly and we will let you choose which door to enter." The cat smiles slyly.

"And if I get either of the riddles wrong?"

"I haven't eaten in so long." The griffin leers, bobbing its head.

"Right. And if I decide to find another way, instead?"

The cat throws her head back and laughs, a tinkling, broken glass sound. "There is no other way."

"No, I can just go back...." John trails off as he turns around and discovers a high brick wall blocking his way. "This was the way I got in! How can it be a dead end now?"

"There is no turning back now." The cat grows even smugger. "Will you answer our riddles, or shall we just eat you up?"

"If you're going to eat me all the same, I might as well at least try to save myself." John mutters. "I'll answer your riddles."

The griffin goes first. He stretches his neck until he is looming over John, then speaks his riddle: "Feed me and I live, yet give me a drink and I die."

John paces back and forth in front of the griffin, rubbing his temple. The gargoyle watches him with beady eyes, shifting from foot to foot anxiously.

"There are lots of things that need food to live. But most of them also need water. So it can't be a human, nor a plant or animal." John grumbles to himself. "So what dies if you pour water over it?"

John stops mid-pace, narrowing his eyes as he strains to think. "AH! I've got it!" He whirls to face the griffin. "If you pour water over a fire, it dies!"

Screeching in anger, the griffin launches itself into the sky and soars away. John turns to the cat. "Okay, now yours."

"Poor people have it." The cat tilts her head at John. "Rich people need it. If you eat it, you die."

This was harder. "Poor people have problems... but a rich person doesn't need problems. And no one can eat a problem, either. If you eat something poisonous, you die. But that isn't something anyone has or needs. What do rich people need? More money, maybe... there's never enough of that, right? But poor people don't have money and you can't eat that, either."

The cat licks her lips with a raspy, stone tongue. She lifts a paw and flicks out stone claws, one by one.

"No, no..." John shakes a finger at her. "I'm not done thinking. I will figure this out! So... someone poor has it and someone rich needs it. What, besides money, does a rich person need? Nothing, really..."

John's head snaps up, realization dawning. "That's it! A poor person has nothing, a rich person needs nothing, and if I eat nothing, I will die!"

Yowling in disappointment, the cat slinks off into the shadows, leaving John completely alone, the doors before him unguarded.

John allows himself a victory leap into the air. "Yes! Not too shabby, John Watson!"

But now came the choice: which door to enter? Could he open one door and see what was beyond, then check the other door?

John approaches the right-hand door and twists the golden knob. The door has obviously been unused for a great deal of time. It sticks for a moment, then shudders and creaks open. The path beyond the door is a simple dirt road, its sides lined with flowers, that twists into a thick forest of trees.

Leaving the door open, John backs away and goes to the left, grasping the silver knob of its door and pushing it open with another squeal of hinges. He reveals a steep set of stone stairs that spiral up.

"So. My options are to enter the deep, dark forest, or climb the stairs to who-knows-where." John muses. He wishes now he had one of the goblin king's baubles to show him where to go.

"If I choose to go up, maybe it will let me see over the labyrinth walls and show me where I need to go next." John says to himself. "And choosing to go into an unknown forest seems like it could be certain death around here."

Making up his mind, John steps through the left-hand door and begins his climb up the stairs. He manages to reach the fifth step when the stairs suddenly collapse under his feet. The staircase arches down and becomes a slide. John is knocked off his feet and skids down the slide. He scrabbles his hands to find something to catch hold of, but to no avail. He slides precariously into a dark hole, falling into nothingness.

***

"He answered the riddles!" Mary's face was purple with rage. "We should have killed him anyway!"

"We must follow the rules, my love. The labyrinth has grown a life of its own. The spell holding it all together is so precarious... if we break the rules, we could ruin everything."

"How can we stop him, then?"

"Take heart, dear one." Moriarty sweeps his hand to the cauldron, which once again shows them what they want to see. "John has chosen the wrong door."

Mary's eyes widen, lighting with excitement. "He has fallen into the oubliette!"

"He will be forgotten for an eternity in there." Moriarty steeples his hands at his chin, looking pleased. "Our final problem has been solved."

The witch and wizard share a wicked laugh, then Moriarty holds out his hand. "Shall we retire to our bedchambers, my love?" He presses a kiss against Mary's hand.

"Yes, I think we shall." Mary strokes her husband's cheek. "We have something to celebrate."

***

John is falling into darkness. His body spins until he no longer knows which way is up or down. It is so dark he cannot see his hands in front of his face. His yells are swallowed up by the shadows, no echo returning to him.

Something wraps tightly around his wrist, wrenching him to a stop. His shoulder throbs. More somethings twine around his other wrist, then his ankles, his waist, until he is suspended in mid-air. He flexes his fingers, trying to determine what has him trapped. It is a vine; he can feel a fibrous plant with leaves protruding along its surface.

The air is now filled with the whisper of leaves. It fills John's ears with insistent rustling that sounds like millions of insects. John thinks he will go mad as the sound reaches a crescendo. "Help!" He cries. "Please, someone, help me! Help!"

The whispers change pitch and then form words, spoken by a thousand voices at the same time, swirling in the air. "What do you mean, 'help'? We are helping you!"

"You're hurting me!" John squirms as the vines pull tighter.

"Would you like us to let go?" John's body is suddenly tumbling again.

"N-no!" He cries. The vines tighten once more, holding him in place.

"Well then, come on. Which way?"

"What...what do you mean, which way?"

"Up..." The vines bounce John's body up. "...or down?" They uncurl and let John slide down slowly.

"Oh!" John gasps, realizing what they mean.

"Come on! Come on! We haven't got all day. Which way do you want to go?"

"Well." John finds his brain muddled from his fall, unable to think clearly or make a decision quickly. "Since I'm pointed that way, I guess I'll go down."

"He chose down!"

"Was that wrong?" John cries as the vines loosen and let his body slide farther down.

"Too late now!" The vines let go and John's body slides quicker, hurtling down with no way to change his speed or trajectory.

***

Sherlock sits rigidly in the throne, watching John fall into the oubliette. Greggle sits at the foot of the throne, a look of frustration on his face.

"I did what I could, Master Holmes. I got him to the doors. You know I couldn't tell him which one to take."

"I know, Greggle. You did well, thank you." Sherlock murmurs, his mind races to decide what to do. "I can't let him rot in the oubliette forever. No one deserves that fate. I should know."

Greggle looks uncomfortable. "What shall we do?"

Sherlock tilts the bauble one way, then the other. "Perhaps it's time I visit John myself. You told me Mary and Moriarty are preoccupied for now. I would like to see John with my own eyes."

Greggle eyes Sherlock suspiciously. "You won't hurt him, will you?"

Sherlock furrows his brow. "How can you ask me that? I would never hurt him willingly."

"I just wish for you to be careful, Master Holmes. There are larger things at stake."

"Don't worry, Greggle. I just want to have... a little fun." Sherlock is forming a plan as he speaks. "And then I want you to help guide him out of the oubliette."

"What?! But if I'm caught--?"

"Simple. Don't be caught." Sherlock refuses to give up the plan now that it has entered his mind. "Lead him out of the oubliette. Perhaps you will run into a problem. Not a large one, mind you. But an obstacle that will disguise the fact that you're helping John."

Greggle rubs his eyes tiredly. "Fine. Of course I will do what you ask."

"Perfect." A rare smile curves at Sherlock's lips. Standing up, he swirls his raven-feather cloak around his body and dissolves into darkness.

***

Landing with a heavy thump, John lays still, body aching, waiting for his head to stop spinning. It is dark around him still, but not the oppressive, unbreachable darkness that he had fallen through. As his eyes adjust, he can make out dim shapes against the walls of a round room. Water drips somewhere in the distance. Rolling over, John fumbles across the floor to grasp the wall and lift himself to his feet. He trails his hands over the wall, trying to find a door. He bangs into unknown objects on the floor, cursing as pain shoots up his leg.

The striking of a match draws his attention. A lantern is lit, revealing....

"Sherlock." John whispers. The goblin king stands before him, dressed entirely in black, from his shiny black boots to a silky black shirt with flared sleeves that fall past his bare hands. A cloak of black feathers trailed the floor. John swallows as he recognizes the cloak from his dreams. He feels a stirring of desire below and chides himself for it.

"So... you have learned my name." Sherlock looks sadly at John. "But still you fear me?"

"Why shouldn't I?" John puffs out his chest, attempting to be brave. "You stole my sister from me."

"John, John..." Sherlock hangs the lantern from a hook on the wall and sweeps closer to John. "Don't you know things are not always what they seem in the labyrinth?" He reaches a hand to stroke John's cheek, but John ducks away angrily.

"Y'know, I keep hearing that." John feels a mixture of panic and anger rise in his chest. "But from where I'm looking, it's pretty simple. You took something that doesn't belong to you and won't give it back. Like an overgrown child."

A muscle in the goblin king's jaw twitches and his eyes flare with emotion. He continues his slow pace forward, causing John to press his back against the wall.

"Do you know what this place is?" Sherlock asks, changing the subject.

"It's just a hole...a dark hole with no doors." John's eyes meet Sherlock's defiantly.

"Not just any hole." Sherlock whispers. "It's an oubliette. My oubliette. Do you know what an oubliette is?"

John shakes his head and Sherlock continues. "It's a place you put people to forget about them."

Sherlock leans down, close to John's ear, his whisper growing even softer. "I was forgotten once, you know. I cannot count how many years I was left down here."

John's eyes grow wide and he turns his face to Sherlock's. Their lips close enough that John feels a soft caress of breath across his skin. "You were kept down here? But... aren't you the king?"

A bitter laugh escapes Sherlock's mouth, his eyes growing hard. "It's not always as it seems, John. I have not always been a king."

Sherlock lifts one hand, snapping his fingers. From the ceiling, clanking and rattling, snake two heavy chains ending in cuffs. Before he realizes what's happening, the cuffs snap around John's wrists, chaining him to the wall.

"What?!" John cries, straining against the chain. "No! What are you doing? NO! This isn't fair, Sherlock!"

"You've said that so often down here." Sherlock strokes John's cheek with his hand. "I wonder what your basis of comparison is."

"Please..." John begs. "Please just let me try to win my sister back. I'm playing by the rules!"

Sherlock's face grows despondent. "I have played by the rules my whole life, John. It has only brought me pain. Won't you allow me this one indulgence?"

John grows still. Something in Sherlock's voice fills his chest with a desperate yearning. "What do you want?"

"I want you, John. Nothing more."

John swallows, the desire flaring up more intensely. "Why...why are you behaving this way? Aren't we meant to be enemies?"

Sherlock brushes John's hair off his forehead. His body is pressed against John's, legs on either side of him. "I wish I could tell you my story, John. I've tried to show it to you this whole time. If only you'd just listen!"

The chains are biting into John's wrists. He wishes they were gone so that he could stroke Sherlock, unbutton that shirt...trail his hands down to.... _No, wait! What am I doing?_

"Do you deny the attraction you feel for me?" The goblin king's hands are roaming over John's body, under his sweater, across his shoulders.

John, unable to think what to say, shakes his head.

"Then close your eyes, John, and forget about your questions for now. Close your eyes and let me give you pleasure."

Chest heaving, John feels as though he is in one of his dreams. He swallows, throat dry, then finally nods, his desire for Sherlock overwhelming all common sense.

A look of pure happiness washes over Sherlock, causing him to look luminous and breathtakingly beautiful. With shaking hands, he reaches for the zipper of John's pants and drags it slowly open. Leaning in close to John's ear, he whispers "I'm going to make you come for me with only my fingers, John."

John's cock was already growing hard, straining against the cloth of his underwear. Sherlock pushes his pants and underwear down over his hips, letting them pool at his feet. He trails his nails lightly up John's shaft, tracing the veins and causing John's breath to hiss out hotly.

"Oh, God." John moans. Sherlock is cupping his balls, massaging and squeezing them with one hand. The other hand wraps around his throbbing cock, thumb flicking at the tip, playing with the drops of liquid already leaking from it. John arches his hips towards Sherlock, silently begging for Sherlock to use his mouth.

A laugh rumbles from the goblin king, "No...you won't get off that easily."

John moans as Sherlock's hand leaves his balls and trip nimbly between his legs, pinching softly at the skin of his inner thigh. He squeezes John's pert ass, then rubs a finger up his crack and around the tiny, wrinkled hole between his cheeks. "Please...." John whimpers.

"Who are you begging?" Sherlock croons. "Ask me by name, John."

"Sherlock...please, Sherlock." John is slowly losing control, his desire uncurling inside him and flooding every nerve ending with pulses of pleasure.

Sherlock, one hand lightly stroking John's cock just slowly enough to keep him on the edge, withdraws his other hand from between John's legs and presses fingers to John's lips. "Open for me." He commands.

Slipping fingers into John's mouth, he probes his tongue and cheeks, letting his fingers get coated in saliva. Then he returns the hand to John's ass, his now slickened index finger pressing at the budded opening of John's asshole. His finger slides in and John shudders, clenching his ass.

"Relax, John. Relax so I don't hurt you." Sherlock whispers, stroking his finger in and out at the same agonizingly slow pace that he strokes John's cock.

John forces himself to relax. His wrists strain at the chains and he bites his lips to contain his moans. He opens his eyes to look into Sherlock's. "Faster...please..." He rasps.

Gently, Sherlock eases a second finger into John's ass, causing a low groan to emerge from John's lips. He keeps his fingers still, allowing John to adjust to the extra stretching, then begins to stroke again, thrusting his fingers as deep as he can. He squeezes John's cock softly with his other hand, then strokes faster. The pulsing shaft jumps in Sherlock's hand and John thrusts his hips, trying to send himself over the edge.

Sherlock pulls his fingers from John's ass, causing John to whimper in disappointment.

"I want you to come for me, John. But I want you to ask me for permission." Sherlock strokes John's cock faster, his hands pulling up and over the tip, then back down again. "Say my name and ask me for permission, love."

John is near crazy with lust. He pulls at the chains holding him back. "Please...please! Sherlock, please let me come!"

Sherlock strokes the tip of John's cock with his thumb, lightly scrapes the back of his thumbnail down the length, then resumes and quickens his strokes as John's words dissolve into one long, keening moan.

"Yes, darling." Sherlock's voice is ragged with lust. His own cock is hard, straining against his leggings. "Come for me. Come in my hands."

Needing no further permission, John arches his back against the wall, his cock shuddering and spurting streams of white liquid all over Sherlock's fingers. Pleasure courses through John's body, fizzing in his brain. He cries out wordlessly, his whole body shaking with the intensity of his orgasm. Finally spent, he sags against the wall, the chains the only thing holding him up. Sweat covers his body and his breath comes in ragged gulps. He looks at Sherlock, whose hot eyes devour ever inch of him. The bulge at Sherlock's crotch tells John that he is not the only one overcome with lust.

Sherlock brings his fingers, dripping from John's climax, to his own lips. He licks each finger slowly, savoring the taste of John in his mouth. A low growl escapes John's lips. Sherlock leans down and runs his tongue up John's neck, tasting his sweat. He finds John's lips and presses his own into a deep kiss. John tastes the salt of himself as well as Sherlock's mouth, a sweet, indefinable flavor. John kisses back, tangling his tongue with Sherlock's, whining in protest when Sherlock breaks the kiss and leans his face to John's ear. Sherlock's breath hitches, sending shivers down John's spine.

John squeezes his eyes shut as Sherlock nips his earlobe hard, eliciting a gasp from John. The goblin king whispers into his ear. "How you've turned my world, you precious thing." A rush of air follows, the sound of beating wings.

The air around John grows cold, chilling the sweat on his skin, and when he opens his eyes, he finds Sherlock gone and the room empty. He sags against the wall, his body naked from the waist down.

The chains dissolve, letting go of his wrists. John slides bonelessly to the floor, his legs too shaky to allow him to stand. He covers his face with both hands, great, shuddering sobs ripping from his chest as hot tears drip over his fingers. A whirl of emotions fill his head - disappointment, lust, confusion, loneliness. He lets it all pour out in a torrent, waves crashing over him, overwhelming his senses.

After some time, his cries quiet to hiccups, then silence. The lantern flickers, casting shadows across the walls of the oubliette. John Watson huddles on the floor, forgotten.

***

Sherlock, in the guise of a raven, flies into the throne room and transforms back to his human self. Greggle waits for him at the foot of the throne. He deliberately ignores the obvious state of desire Sherlock is in and stands, waiting for a command.

"Go to him, Greggle. Help him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope my readers will forgive me for changing up the "One of us always tells the truth, and one of us always lies." sequence. Like the creatures in the movie, I've never been able to understand that riddle, so I wanted to write something that made more sense to me, but still had a note of the original in it. Hopefully you will all feel I succeeded!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ally appears just in time to save the day!

A thump, then the sound of dust skittering across the floor of the labyrinth alerts John. He raises his head, squinting into the shadows. The lantern has burnt out and John feels a chill creeping into his bones. "Who's there?"

The room grows a shade brighter as Greggle appears, hoisting a new lantern. "Me." He growls, brushing tendrils of grey hair from his eyes.

John hugs his knees to his chest, casting haunted eyes to Greggle's face. "You. How did you know to find me here? Did Sherlock send you?"

Greggle looks uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. He sets the lantern on the floor and steps closer to John, stooping down to look him in the eyes.

"I...uh...knew you were gonna get in trouble the minute I saw you. Wouldn't have felt right to leave you lost in the labyrinth."

"I don't believe you." A note of hurt creeps into John's voice. "I don't want to be here anymore... I just want to go home." He feels tears gather once more, but swallows to keep them at bay.

Heaving a sad sigh, Greggle holds out a work-roughened hand. "Let's get you cleaned up and dressed again? And then I'll show you how to get out of the oubliette."

"Why are you helping me? Isn't that against 'the rules'?" John asks, a note of sarcasm tingeing his words.

Greggle runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "A long time ago, I made a promise to the king and queen - my _friends_ \- to help protect their son. I've done a piss-poor job of it so far, but I'm trying. Helping you also helps him."

"How so?" John narrows his eyes.

"Because for whatever reason, Sherlock has decided he loves you!" Greggle blurts out, then immediately looks as though he regrets his hastily uttered confession.

John gapes at Greggle. "Love? Love?!" He throws his head back, a bitter laugh escaping his mouth. "What kind of twisted brain thinks kidnapping a man's sister and... and.. chaining him to walls... is _love_?"

Greggle withdraws a small locket from beneath his cloak. Popping it open, he passes it to John, who stares down at the face of two little boys - one with dark hair, the other with red.

"Back before this was the labyrinth, Sherlock was that little boy." Greggle indicates the haunted looking child with black curls. "You see, John... the wrong'uns who created this place... they twisted everything in it. Even Sherlock himself. But that little boy there... he's still in there. Trying to get out."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Haven't you ever heard love heals everything?"

John snorts softly, shaking his head. "I'm supposed to fall in love with Sherlock?"

Greggle stares at John for a prolonged moment. "Do you deny you don't already feel something in there?" He reaches out and taps at John's chest.

Clenching his jaw, John looks away, afraid to confront what he feels growing in his heart. "How sick would I be if I said yes?"

"You don't know the whole story, John."

"So tell it to me!" John pleads, holding out his palms in supplication. "Make me understand. Because I sure as hell haven't understood anything since I got stuck in this godforsaken place."

"I would if I could, John. But you must know there are rules...and there are ears everywhere."

John closes his eyes and leans his head back against the stone wall. "Fine. Fine. Show me how to get out of here, then."

Greggle helps John to his feet, averting his eyes while John redresses himself. He picks up the lantern and indicates a wall on the west side of the room. Fumbling in his pocket, he withdraws a stubby piece of chalk, which he proceeds to use to draw a crooked door on the wall. The moment the chalk outline is complete, it shimmers and turns into a real, wooden door. Greggle hauls the door open and waves John through.

They emerge into a winding corridor leading upwards. Lining the walls are stone statues of knights, each clutching a stone sword and shield. As John and Greggle begin their trek up the corridor, each knight creaks to life as they pass it. "Go back!" One proclaims. "Don't go on!" "This is not the way!" "Beware. Beware!" One by one, each knight exclaims its prophecy of doom.

John stops and glances at Greggle accusingly. "You trying to pull one over on me?"

"Ignore them. They're just false alarms. You get a lot of them in the labyrinth. Usually means you're on the right track."

"Oh no you're not!" Booms another knight.

"Oh, shut up!" Greggle snaps.

As they pass the final knight, Greggle points a stubby finger at it and growls "Just forget it!"

"Oh, please. I haven't said it in so long!" The knight protests.

"All right. But don't expect a big reaction."

"No, of course not." The knight clears its throat. "Beware...for the path you take will lead to certain destruction!"

Greggle and John roll their eyes at each other, then continue the path to the surface. A wooden cover pushed open reveals the labyrinth once more. They are in a large garden; the walls of this section of the labyrinth are made of thick hedges with nasty looking thorns lining branches. Poisonous looking plants and flowers are scattered about. In the middle of the garden is a massive white fountain capped with the figure of a snow white dove, wings extended. Clear water pours out of the dove's mouth and down into the fountain.

"Don't drink that." Mutters Greggle.

"I may look dumb, but even I know that." John replies.

Together they survey the garden, looking for an escape, but finding nothing. "So, where do we go from here?" John asks.

"I don't know." Greggle looks shaken. "I... haven't ever seen this part of the labyrinth."

"That's because I've never let you into my garden, dear one." An ethereally beautiful woman with black hair cascading down her back emerges from behind the fountain. A dress made of red rose petals drips down her body, trailing across the stone.

Greggle pulls John back a few steps with him, his eyes darting around to look for any way to escape. "I don't know what's going on, John. I can't help us here."

The woman laughs a high, clear laugh. "Don't be silly! I don't want to hurt you. I so rarely have visitors to my garden. Won't you stay for tea with me?" Waving her arms, a table appears, its surface laid with fine china cups. A plate of finger sandwiches acts as a centerpiece.

John's stomach gives a massive growl of hunger. "Surely we could...."

"John, no!" Greggle hisses, tugging on his wrist. "I don't feel good about this."

"Enough!" The woman stamps her foot. "Stop meddling!" Pointing her finger at Greggle, the air shifts, crackling with electricity, and suddenly John is standing beside a Greggle statue, a look of fear frozen on his face.

"No! Turn him back!" John turns panicked eyes on the woman.

"I just wanted us to be alone, John." The woman smiles, stepping toward John, lifting a finger to trace his jaw. "Stay here with me, have tea. You look so tired...."

As the woman speaks, her face warps, twisting and changing. The black of her hair drips onto the ground like paint, leaving behind blonde hair curling around her face. "I don't think we've been introduced yet, John. My name is Mary."

John's eyes feel heavy as he tries to follow Mary's movements around him. He knows he should be frightened, but he's just so...tired. Maybe some food and a nap would help. Surely that would be okay....

"Who cares about this silly, old labyrinth, anyway?" Mary's lips are at John's ears. "There's nothing for you out there. You'll be safe in here."

"No... there _is_ something out there for me...." John murmurs, his brain fighting to dispel the fog of exhaustion. "Something...someone... I don't remember."

"Then it couldn't be important!" That tinkling laugh again. "Come and eat. Sleep. My plants will take care of you, John, if you just let them."

John's head lolls as Mary leads him to the table set for tea. Around him the leaves on the plants shiver in anticipation.

Mary places a sandwich in John's hand. He has it halfway to his mouth when an enormous baying and the thunderous sound of paws rouse him from the fog. The ground shakes and then a section of the hedge explodes in a flurry of leaves and thorns. The plants shrink back, hissing in disappointment. A gigantic creature covered in red fur leaps upon Mary, who screams angrily and disappears with a pop and a shower of sparks.

The creature turns its head to John and he thinks that it resembles a huge Irish Setter that someone had stretched and squished until it took on cartoonish proportions. Glistening brown eyes shine out above a shiny black nose. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth so comically that John can't help but laugh. His laughter sets the creature's tail wagging furiously, colliding with the fountain and sending a shower of water in all direction.

"Okay, okay...good boy!" John approaches the gigantic hound carefully. "Settle down... thank you for saving me... oh, blech! Stop licking! No!"

The dog's tail wags faster and John wipes slobber off his face. "Okay, let's try this again. Down, boy. Sit...good boy." He notices a glint of gold in the long, silky fur and fishes out a tag hanging from a collar around the dog's neck. "Redbeard... is that your name, boy?"

The dog gives a soft "Whuff!" of affirmation.

"Well, Redbeard. You saved the day. And you gave us a way out." John indicated the hole in the hedge. "Now... what do we do with him?"

John studies the statue of Greggle hopelessly. Redbeard whines, then crawls towards the statue, nudging it with his nose. He then engulfs the statue with his tongue as he licks it from top to toe. Greggle, suddenly no longer a statue, splutters and coughs, his hair and clothes now coated with thick, stringy dog saliva.

"Eurrggh!"

"You're not a statue anymore!" Cries John, trying - and failing - not to laugh.

"Brilliant deduction." Greggle scowls. "What the hell just happened to me?"

John relates the details of what happened after Greggle turned to a statue. Greggle's face grows white at the mention of Mary's name.

"And then this...thing...saved me!" John finishes, gesturing to Redbeard.

Greggle gapes. "Redbeard? Is that you, boy? Oh, good BOY! C'mere!" He holds out his arms and the massive dog bounds over, burying Greggle in a wall of fur.

"You know this thing?" John asks.

Extricating himself from the dog's exuberant embrace, Greggle nods. "This is Sherlock's dog. Haven't seen him... well, not since the labyrinth was created. Who's been taking care of you, hmmm?"

Redbeard whines, but has no way to answer the question.

"Well, never mind." Greggle says. "I'm just glad he showed up in time. He's always been a loyal dog to Sherlock... and now he seems to have taken a liking to you."

Greggle eyes John, who blushes but says nothing. "I figured you might not have anything to say about that. Shall we get out of here before those plants decide to take us on?"

John nods, gratefully. "I guess we have a new companion along the way?" He tilts his head to Redbeard.

"You never know when a giant red dog might come in handy."

They climbed through the hole in the hedge and found themselves back to the normal labyrinth corridors.

"This is where I leave you." Greggle says.

"What?!" John says, turning an accusing look to Greggle.

"I'm sorry, John, but it's the rules. I can't stay with you."

"But... !"

"But nothing. I've got myself to look out for too, you know. It's not safe for me to continue with you. And besides, you've got Redbeard to help you now. Maybe he can help you sniff your way out."

"I think you're just a coward!" John spits out angrily.

"Yeah?" Greggle fixes a beady eye on him. "Well, sometimes it's the cowards who get through life in one piece."

Greggle spins, and in the blink of an eye, disappears.

"Great." John throws his hands up. "Alone, again."

Redbeard whines and slurps John's hand, leaving it covered in dog slobber. "Okay, not alone. We've really got to do something about that slobber of yours. Which way should we go, boy?"

Redbeard lifts his nose and sniffs, tail twitching. After a few moments, he lumbers off to the left and John sets off after him. "I hope you know where you're going."

***

Greggle appears in the throne room and glares at Sherlock, who sits in his throne, a worried look on his face. "These games are getting old, Sherlock."

The goblin king blinks at him with eyes filled with infinite sadness. "Don't you think I would stop playing if I could? Is he safe?" His voice is suffused with pain and longing.

"For now. Redbeard's with him. Did you send him?"

"Redbeard?" Sherlock sits up straight, his eyes widening. "Redbeard's... alive?"

"If you didn't send him, who did?"

"I...don't know." Sherlock says in wonder. "I feel like the labyrinth is changing, Greggle. Perhaps it conjured Redbeard itself. Perhaps Redbeard found John because he knows John can set things right."

"Well, he'd better hurry. He's wasted a lot of time and there's only 6 hours left."

Sherlock covers his face with his hands, his mind filled with memories of a loyal dog and the first threads of hope he has felt in centuries.

***

"Why does he keep getting through our traps?" Moriarty paces in his bedroom while Mary lounges in bed nursing a sulk over the encounter in the garden.

"I think we should just kill him. Burn him where he stands." She snaps.

"And then have the labyrinth's magic collapse and kill us all? Yes, dear one, let's do that." Moriarty drawls sarcastically, sending his wife further into a pout.

"Burn him... Interesting thought, though." Moriarty conjures a flame in his palm and watches it dance, his eyes alight. "Perhaps... we can heat things up a bit for John."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The labyrinth's hidden depths continue to change and grow, along with Moriarty's anger.

Greggle stumps through a clump of weeds crawling across the ground outside the castle. His thoughts are muddled with worry - worry about Sherlock; about the labyrinth; about the fate of everyone within the walls. It takes him a few moments to realize he's not alone. Spinning around, he finds Moriarty leaning casually against the castle wall, staring at him with those black, empty eyes of his.

"Greggle." Moriarty drawls. "I do hope you weren't headed out to help John."

A nervous laugh escapes Greggle's lips. "John? Help...John? Why... I have no idea what you mean, your magnificence."

Baring teeth in an approximation of a smile, Moriarty leans down until he is at eye level with Greggle. "If I thought you were helping John through the labyrinth... well, there might be serious consequences. For you... and others." His eyes flick to the castle entrance, where Sherlock remains in the throne room.

Greggle swallows hard. "I...uh... would never! Help! Ha...ha... No, sir. I simply try to... confuse him. So that he won't make it through the labyrinth."

Moriarty appraises Greggle, nostrils flaring as though he is trying to smell the lies. "Well. I've got a better plan. The next time you see John, you must give him this." He opens his hand to reveal a perfect red apple, fat and lush, looking as though it had just been plucked from a tree.

"W-what's that?" Greggle can't take his eyes from the apple. "It won't hurt him? I won't do nothing to harm him... it wouldn't be fair."

"It's just a gift, Greggle. It will only...delay him. For a time."

Greggle continues to stare, fear pooling in his chest. Finally, he shakes his head. "No. No, I cannot do that, sir. That's not playing fair."

Moriarty, eyes narrowed, stands up to his full height. "No? You dare tell me no? Oh, you've gotten full of yourself, Greggle... perhaps I should make you a prince?"

"A p-prince?" Greggle stammers.

"Yes." Moriarty lifts a hand, shadows gathering in his palm. "Prince of the land of stench!" He lets loose the shadow, which wraps around Greggle before he can run, squeezing tighter and tighter until there is nothing left of Greggle and Moriarty is alone outside the castle.

"Now that he is out of the way." Moriarty murmurs to himself, running the apple over his cheek and across his lips. "It will be so much easier to keep Sherlock under my control."

***

John stares at the door set in the wall in front of him. Every path he had tried in the last while had led him to this door. Sturdy, built from oak, it had a knocker in the center of the door in the shape of a creature with a comically large nose. A brass ring dangled in its mouth. Redbeard whines and paws at John's feet.

"I know, boy. You want to keep moving." John sighs, runs his hand through his hair. "We've gone a long time without anything bad happening... I just feel a little nervous about going through this door. But I guess we don't really have a choice."

John steps closer to the door, looking for a handle which appears to be missing.

"Mmmh-mmf mmm mffff hmm mmf!" The knocker's eyes snap open and tries to say something to John, but the brass ring muffles his voice.

"Agh!" John cries, stepping back. "You can talk! Oh, what am I saying... of course you can talk. Every bloody thing in this bloody labyrinth can talk. Why not a talking door-knocker? But... I can't understand what you're saying...."

John grasps the brass ring and gives a sharp tug. The ring pops out of the knocker's mouth and it gives a huge gasp of relief.

"Ooh...ahhh...oh! It is so good to get that thing out!" The knocker smacks its brass lips in delight.

"What were you trying to say?" John asks.

"I said, it's not polite to stare."

"Oh. Well... sorry. I didn't know you were alive."

"Typical."

"Can you tell me where this door leads?"

"Search me, I'm just a knocker."

"Right." John says crossly. "I should have expected as much. Well, how do I get this door open, then?"

Clearing its throat, the knocker says imperiously, "Knock, and the door shall open."

John feels a headache gathering between his eyes. "Of course. Yeah. Why not? Open up so I can put your ring back in, then."

"I don't want that thing back in my mouth!"

"I can't very well knock without it!" John stamps his feet, wishing he could throw himself on the ground and pitch a massive fit.

The knocker clenches its mouth shut tightly. John glares at it, his mind trying to figure out a solution. His hand flies up, grabbing the knocker's nose and squeezing its nostrils shut. The knocker's eyes pop wide and it tries to resist opening its mouth... but soon it runs out of breath and gasps, its lips finally opening. Quickly, John stuffs the ring back into its mouth.

"Sorry." He tells the glaring knocker, then bangs the brass ring twice and the door creaks open. "C'mon, Redbeard. Onward!"

They emerge into a desert. Miles and miles of sand dunes stretch out before their eyes, no tree or mountain disrupting the steady roll of desert ocean. The air crackles with dryness, filling their lungs with dust when they breathe. Off in the distance, a giant skeleton is half-covered in sand, the only thing visible are its huge, white ribs.

John feels the weight of exhaustion settle on his shoulders. His feet and legs ache from the countless miles of walking through the labyrinth. He licks his lips, which are already starting to dry out and crack from the desert air. Harry. He thinks. _I have to remember why I'm here_.

"Which way do you think, Redbeard?" John asks, but doesn't hear an answering bark or whine. Turning around, he finds he is alone. No trace of the huge red dog can be seen. "Redbeard?"

He calls for the dog louder, to no avail. Redbeard has disappeared and John is well and truly alone.

***

Sherlock watches John in his glass bauble, perplexed. "That door shouldn't lead there." He murmurs. "The Desert of Sorrow is on the very outskirts of the labyrinth... you can't get to it through there."

He knows now the labyrinth is shifting and re-shifting its walls, playing the game harder because John has progressed so far. Perhaps, even, Mary and Moriarty are at work.

"Greggle!" Sherlock snaps, planning to send his protector to help John.

No response. "Greggle?" Still he doesn't appear. Sherlock tries to get his bauble to show him Greggle, but his mind refuses to let go of John's image. A feeling of foreboding sweeps over Sherlock.

"This has to be trickery...." Sherlock whispers. "I can't let anything happen to John."

Leaping to his feet, he begins to pace, torn between helping the man he loves and keeping his true intentions hidden from the dark forces at work in the labyrinth.

Within the bauble, John has set out across the desert sand. His body tiny against the vast expanse of dune. He stumbles, falls to one knee, then struggles to right himself.

"He's tired." Sherlock moans. "He'll die out there."

Sherlock, making up his mind, concentrates his powers on himself, imagining his arms light as air. He feels the feathers break through his skin, prickle up his arm. His body shrinks, grows claws. In moments, the black barn owl lets out a harsh scream and soars out of the castle and towards the desert.

***

 _One step. Two. Another. One foot in front of the other. Keep going._ John's eyes burn with the sand that blows in his face, his cheeks raw and red. His limbs scream from the effort of trudging through sand. The landscape stretches before him, unchanging.

 _Give up. Give up. Give up._ The wind howls. It had picked up as soon as John started walking, pushing at his chest, making each step even harder than the last.

John rubs a rough hand over his face. His tongue feels - and tastes - like a dirty sock and he would sell his soul for a drink of water.

Cresting one of the dunes, John's eyes widen. Below him is a valley, a blue pool of water in the center surrounded by palm trees. Choking back a sob of relief, John half runs, half slides down the sand and stumbles to the edge of the pool. He dips his hand into the water, moans at the blessed coolness that soothes his chapped hands. He lifts a palm to his mouth to drink...

Sandy muck fills his mouth as he splutters around a mouthful of quicksand. The trees disappear and the pool transforms before his eyes. John gags, spits, but feels the quicksand grab hold of him and drag him downward.

"No!" He cries, scrabbling for purchase. The quicksand sucks at his legs as he sinks deeper into it. His hands snag a sharp tusk that belongs to another skeleton buried in the sand. John wraps his arms tightly around it, pulling his body out of the muck. He manages to free his legs and scramble away from the edge, his pants weighed down with rapidly drying sand. His tongue is coated in granules of it.

A clicking above him causes John to look up. From over the ridge of the sand, three gigantic scorpions descend upon him, angrily clicking and hissing. John leaps up, but the only way to go is toward the quicksand. The scorpions stab their tails at John and he is horrified when one shoots a jet of flame at him, singeing the sleeve of his sweater.

Heart pounding, John thinks that this must be the end. He whirls his head back and forth, looking for an escape route, but finding none. More flames shoot out at him from all three scorpions. His arm catches a blast of it and John yells, hot pain flooding his senses.

The sand ripples from the heat, the soles of John's shoes warming uncomfortably. The flames now seem to leap up all around him, acrid smoke filling his lungs. He stumbles back a couple of steps, feels the quicksand at his ankles. The smoke... thick, foul smoke... hard to breathe... eyes close... falling backward...

Wing-beats.

A soft breeze blows across John's face. Dimly, he hears the hiss and shriek of scorpions grow louder before they are abruptly silenced. He tries to turn his head, open his eyes, but his lungs scream for air and his muscles won't work. Why won't they work? John feels sharp claws grasp about his middle, feels the sensation of being lifted into the air. Then blackness creeps across his vision and he feels absolutely nothing.

***

The barn owl soars high above the labyrinth. His body is grown massive and he clutches the man's body in his claws. His primitive brain forgets why he carries the man, but there is a thread there - a small part of him that remains human. That small part of him sings the reason: _John. John. John._

The owl angles down, coming to a soft landing at the edges of a river that leads into a swamp. Shrinking smaller, feathers shedding, Sherlock emerges from the guise of the owl and lays John's unconscious body on the bank of the river. Cupping his hands, he dribbles fresh water on John's face, wiping away the sand and soot and smoothing back his golden hair. He brushes a light hand over the angry welt left on John's arm by the fire; it will hurt, but is not so bad that it won't heal. He rests his head on John's chest and listens to his heart thumping steadily. Finally he allows the sick worry that flooded his body to leave. _John is alive. John is safe._

He bends closer, pressing his lips to John's forehead. Moving lower, he kisses his lips, drawing a soft groan from John, whose eyelids start fluttering.

"I'm sorry, my love." Sherlock whispers. "I cannot stay...and you still have a great deal of the journey to go. Find me, John. Come and find me."

***

John opens his eyes, the sound of wing-beats fading in the distance. His chest hurts. Oh, God, it hurts. He gulps in lungfuls of fresh air, expelling puffs of smoke, until breathing becomes easier. His burnt arm throbs painfully.

But he is alive and out of the desert. John quickly takes in his surroundings, unsure of how he came to be in a completely different part of the labyrinth. The river burbles happily at him, a simple canoe tied at its edge bobs gently in the current.

John yearns to close his eyes once more and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep until his bones stop aching and his mind calms. But he knows he must continue on the quest. Joints creaking and muscles protesting, John struggles to stand, then limps to the river's edge and climbs into the canoe, paddling his way toward swampland in the distance.

***

Sherlock the owl lands in the middle of the throne room, scattering goblins this way and that, their chattering cries bouncing off the stone walls of the castle. He transforms once more into human form, his arms fizzing with the sensation of shapeshifting too much in too little time. He shakes his arms, trying to ease the prickling feeling out of them. _It doesn't matter. John is safe._

The only sign that he is not alone is the sound of Moriarty's shoe meeting the stone of the throne room floor, his body materializing in shadow. Sherlock is hit full force in the back with a ribbon of dark shadow, which wraps around his body, pinning his limbs to his side and twining painfully around his neck. His body is lifted up off the floor and rotated to face Moriarty. Dead eyes glare out at him from Moriarty's face, his teeth bared, breath heaving out in a low, mad growl.

"What did you do?" Moriarty ground out. The tendril of shadow around Sherlock's neck tightens uncomfortably and Sherlock struggles to suck in air. "WHAT DID YOU DO, SHERLOCK?"

Sherlock squeaks out a breath. Gasps painfully. "Please... I... don't...."

"Don't try to deny it, Sherlock." The shadows are wrapping tighter. Sherlock's vision is crawling with starlight. "I know you helped John. Saved him. You thought I wasn't watching, but you made a mistake. Went yourself instead of sending your little lap dog. Played right into my hands." Moriarty laughed darkly.

"I... can't..." Sherlock's chest is being squeezed now, his bones creaking under the pressure.

"Can't breathe, Sherlock?" Moriarty laughs again. "Such a pity. Now... what are we going to do with you?"

Moriarty paces around Sherlock's body, stroking his chin. "I could just give you to Mary. I'm sure she could have fun with you."

Sherlock's eyes roll around in panic, his nostrils flaring. "No... please...." He rasps, each word agony.

"No, no. You're right. Dull. Not this time." Moriarty draws closer to Sherlock. "But perhaps you could help me, Sherlock. Perhaps you might redeem yourself."

From within the folds of shadows around him, Moriarty withdraws the gleaming red apple. "Don't you think John is hungry by now?"

Sherlock's eyes grow wide as he realizes Moriarty's implications. "No...." He wheezes.

"Oh, yes, Sherlock. You will give John this apple. You will do as you are told, or you will regret it."

Sherlock squeezes his eyes tightly. "No!"

Moriarty clenches his jaw, a black flame igniting in his eyes. He flicks a hand in the air and the shadows tighten even more around Sherlock, his spine groaning in protest. Sherlock opens his mouth to scream and the shadows invade, filling his body with dark, viscous fluid, flooding his lungs. He gags and chokes, his vision swimming, as the shadows poke around in his mind, filling every corner with their dark whispering. Just as Sherlock thinks he can't take anymore, just as he is on the very edge of madness, the shadows retreat and his body falls to the stone floor. Pain shoots up his arm as he lands on his wrist. He coughs, spitting out long streams of dark fluid, his body wracked with shivers.

Squatting next to him, Moriarty grasps Sherlock's chin and wrenches his face up to meet his eyes. "I have taken a scrap of your mind, Sherlock. A small thread of your being. And it will do what I ask... it will give the apple to John."

Tears run freely down Sherlock's face. His body is too exhausted to fight Moriarty.

"I warn you, Sherlock. Continue to defy me and you will face worse than this." Moriarty whispers, his face sickeningly close to Sherlock's. "Help John directly again and you will wish you were never born."

Dropping Sherlock's face, Moriarty fades into the shadows, taking with him the stolen piece of Sherlock's mind. Sherlock lies on the floor of the throne room, shoulders heaving, great, gulping sobs pouring from his mouth.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bog of Eternal Stench, an encounter with a new foe-turned-friend, and the missing piece of Sherlock's mind all conspire to hinder John's way through the labyrinth.

There is a piece of his mind that is no longer there. Like a piece of a puzzle gone missing, Sherlock feels its absence; it makes it hard to think, hard to breathe. It makes him forget. He sits in his throne, willing his memory to stay whole. He clutches his glass bauble, John's face staring out at him, reminding Sherlock of what is at stake. A piece of him is lost, stolen from him. It robs him of his power to transform himself. It robs him of speech. It slows his mind down to an agonizing crawl. Sherlock sits in his throne and wills himself to hold only one thing in his mind: John.

***

Tendrils of cypress reach out lazily towards the canoe as John sluices the paddle through water, pushing himself through the swamp. The buzz of insects ebbs and flows, the air sticky against his desert-ravaged skin. His eyelids droop and he shakes himself repeatedly to keep from falling asleep. The distant plop of water indicates there are creatures in the swamp around him, though they have left him alone so far.

Up ahead, John glimpses a stretch of land - his destination? Shoulders protesting, he paddles faster. As he nears land, the breeze wafts the smell of death - sweet, rotting flesh, the ooze of excrement. John gags as the waves of scent wash over him. He leans over the edge of the canoe and retches, but fails to bring anything up from his empty stomach. His eyes water and he breathes shallowly through his mouth, trying to get accustomed to the stench.

The canoe bumps into land, scraping to a stop. Laying paddles aside, John clambers over the side and pauses to steady himself. The smell is worse here, a fetid, pungent wave that stings his nose and eyes. John climbs up the slight incline of land, straining to see what waits for him.

A yelp of gleeful barks reaches his ears and Redbeard bounds from behind a tree, enormous tail stirring the breeze and wafting more noxious fumes to John. But he doesn't care - he grins widely and laughs.

"Redbeard! Good boy! Where've you been?" He rubs the dog's neck and ducks to avoid the moist wet tongue that darts out of Redbeard's mouth and tries to slurp his face.

Redbeard chuffs happily, his tail wagging sending wiggles of delight through his whole body. John leans closer, taking comfort from the kind-hearted creature.

"'Bout time you got here." Greggle steps out from behind the same tree as Redbeard. "Thought you'd gotten lost."

"Greggle! Oh god, I'm glad to see you." John bounds over, relief that he is no longer alone washing over him.

Greggle glares at John. "It's because of you that I'm here. Forgive me if I don't feel much like celebrating."

"Where exactly is here, anyway?" John asks, waving his hand in an attempt to clear the disgusting smells continuing to drift around him. "And why is it my fault?"

Leaving out mention of the poison apple and Moriarty, Greggle skirts around the details of how he came to be in the swamp. "It's the Bog of Eternal Stench. That's why it smells like it does. That 'un..." Greggle indicates Redbeard, who sits watching them, tongue lolling out comically. "...has rolled in no less than five piles of _something_. He thinks it's great!"

"So. Where do we go from here, then?"

"There's a bridge over there." Greggle waves back in the direction from which he came. "I'm pretty sure that'll take us to the outskirts of the goblin city. I didn't try crossing it yet because I was hoping you would show up."

"I got a little distracted... that's what took me so long." John skirts around the truth, not wishing to relive his experience in the desert.

Greggle eyes him suspiciously. "How exactly did you find your way here on your own?"

"Oh, you know... luck, mostly?"

"Right."

"Look, I might have been unconscious for part of it...." John finally admits. "I'm not exactly sure how I got here."

Greggle nods. "I wondered as much. Sherlock must've helped you when he realized I was gone."

"What?! Why would he help me? Isn't he the one hoping I don't make it to the end?"

"You know, you can be kind of stupid sometimes, right?" Greggle appraised him with flinty eyes.

"Uh... thanks?"

"No, really. Have you gotten this far into the labyrinth and still not realized that Sherlock isn't necessarily the 'bad guy'?"

"But...."

Harrumphing in frustration, Greggle waves his hand dismissively. "Look, I can't force you to see what you don't want to see. But believe me, there are greater forces at work in all this and Sherlock is just trying to protect you. Now... shall we attempt that bridge?"

John stares dumbfounded as Greggle stomps away from him. In the back of his mind he is dimly aware of a hazy memory of soaring through the skies and of soft lips touching his, the brush of black curls tickling his cheeks. He swallows, closes his eyes, and wills the thought away. _Must focus only on getting out of this mess._

The bridge is a rickety rope bridge with wooden slats. It hangs precariously over a smelly stretch of acrid water. "Don't touch that water." Greggle cautions. "Or you'll smell like the bog for the rest of your days."

John shudders. "Are we sure this bridge will hold us all?"

"Not even a little bit." Greggle sighs, glancing pointedly at Redbeard, who is now watching a fly circle lazily in the air.

"Halt!" A high-pitched voice crows from across the bridge. A jaunty fox bounds out into the open astride a grey and white sheep dog. The fox's body is draped in a red cloak and she clutches a lance striped gold and black. Atop her head perches a black velvet cap, a pristine grey feather emerging from its top. "None may pass this bridge without my permission!"

Kicking her heels, the fox urges her canine steed across the rickety bridge, beady eyes glaring at John and his companions.

"Oh! Err... who are you?" John asks warily.

"It should be I who asks that of you." The fox replies. "For you are in my territory!"

"Well, I'm John." John points to himself, then waves his hand to the others. "This is Greggle and Redbeard. And we're just trying to get to the castle."

"Your feet have taken you in the right direction, then! The castle is just beyond my bridge! I am the Lady Molly...and this is my loyal steed, Anderson."

"That's excellent! So... we can cross, get out of this horrible smelling place, my lady?"

Molly wriggles her nose. "I smell nothing, and I live by my sense of smell. The air is sweet and fragrant. And no one may pass without my permission!"

Redbeard, tiring of the conversation, leaps forward and chuffs his frustration. Yelping in surprise, Molly brandishes her lance, smacking at Redbeard's paws and causing the dog to whimper pitifully.

"Back! Foul creature! I'm sworn to do my duty!" Molly leaps and darts around, waving her lance at Redbeard, who cowers in confusion.

Finally stopping, breathless, Molly pants "Never have I met such a match as this creature! I yield, brother, and beg that we fight together, rather than against each other."

Redbeard, cheerful mood returning, thumps his tail and rewards Molly with a wet lick of his tongue, leaving half her fur dripping with dog slobber.

"Great! Let's go!" John moves to push past Molly and cross the bridge, but she darts in front of him to block his way.

"You forget my sacred vow, sir! I cannot let you pass!"

Leaning his head back, John wonders if anything in the labyrinth is easy. "Okay. So what exactly is this sacred vow?"

"Why, I sworn with my life's blood that none may pass without my permission!" Molly sits straight on Anderson's back, head held proudly.

"Then... may we have your permission?"

"Oh! Well...I...uh.... yes?"

"Thank you, noble lady." John bends deeply into a bow.

Molly urges Anderson aside so that John can pass. He eases onto the bridge, stepping carefully, but still the boards creak and groan.

"Oh, no...." John mutters, willing the bridge to stay together.

"Do not fear, kind sir!" Molly cries to him. "This bridge has lasted for 1,000 years!"

She gives a sharp rap to the bridge with her lance and the bridge begins to crumble, pieces dropping into the foul water below.

"Oh, fuck!" John yells, grabbing for a tree branch above his head. He hangs on for dear life as the bridge completely disintegrates. "Help!"

"John!" Greggle yells, panic crossing his face. "Don't let go, whatever you do!"

"Trying!" John grunts, his stocky body weighing the tree branch down, his feet dangling dangerously close to the water. "Get me out of this!"

Redbeard, standing at the water's edge, throws his head back and howls mournfully.

"Noble creature, now is not the time to howl when your friend needs help!" Molly exclaims.

Redbeard continues his howl, the sound growing louder. The ground rumbles ominously and below John, a rock emerges from the surface of the water. Then another rock appears, followed by another. A path across the water forms and John gently lowers himself to the rock, finally letting go of the branch.

"Can thou summon the very rocks?" Molly asks incredulously. "You are, indeed, a remarkable creature!"

Redbeard's tail thumps in appreciation of the compliment and he dashes across the rocks to join John on the other side of the water. Greggle follows closely after.

"Wait!" Molly cries. "Steady, Anderson! Forward!"

Molly and Anderson gallop across the rocks, pulling up beside the trio. "Wouldst thou allow us to join your group and fight for the side of good?"

John grins at them, "Sure, why not? We can use all the help we can get."

So the three becomes five as they continue into the thicket of forest that lays between them and the goblin city.

***

Moriarty stretches out on the floor in front of a massive fireplace, his body naked and glistening in the flickering light. Mary lies curled in his arms, her milky flesh smooth as marble. He strokes her back and she stretches and purrs like a cat.

"Not much longer, my love." He murmurs, burying his face in her golden hair. "My plan is in place and soon John will be stopped for good."

Pressing lips to his chest, Mary hums in pleasure. They share a devilish grin and Mary travels lower, imparting her delight in a much more physical way.

***

The forest beyond the Bog of Eternal Stench is eerily quiet; a layer of fog hovers at ground level, muffling all sound. John and his ragtag group weave and wend their way through the trees, Greggle slashing the trunks to mark the direction they travel.

"Don't stray from the path." Greggle cautions. "I've never been this deep in the forest before... I don't know what might be in here."

Redbeard whines apprehensively and Molly shivers and whispers, "Stay close to the group, Anderson."

John nods, too tired to say much of anything. He watches his feet to make sure they stay steady. When he glances up, he finds the group has pulled ahead. He can barely make out the four others bobbing through the fog. Opening his mouth to call out for them to wait, he is suddenly distracted by a flash of gold at the corner of his eye.

Turning, he sees it again - a wisp of golden hair moving through the trees. He veers toward it, squinting to see clearer.

A familiar laugh reaches back to him and he gasps. "Harry?"

His sister's face peers from between the trees and she giggles, turning and running in the opposite direction. John speeds up, jogging deeper into the forest. "Harry, come back! What are you doing?"

On and on, she leads him in a merry chase, her cries of delight and laughter echoing off the trees. John pushes himself to run faster and faster and...

Breaking through the trees, John finds empty air below his feet, the forest ending in a steep drop off. His legs pump, trying to gain purchase, but he falls, his hands clawing at nothing, a cry of panic caught in his throat. His body, flailing, plummets to the earth, but as he braces for impact, the sky shatters into pieces. He crashes through it and lands with a soft thump, surrounded by darkness. Lights click on, dimly illuminating a room filled with a maze of mirrors. At John's feet, a red thread stretches away from him, disappearing into the maze. John can hear someone crying, choking on sobs. 

"Harry?" He calls, tentatively.

The sobs increase in volume until they're echoing off the mirrors, filling the room. John bends down and picks up the thread, running it through his fingers. He takes a few steps, stopping to glance back, but dark shadows fill the space he leaves behind. The shadows crowd against his back, pushing him further into the maze. As he wends his way through, he glimpses flashes of... something... in the mirrors. A twinkle of an eye, a rush of movement. He passes too close to one of the mirrors and a shadowy hand darts out and grips his wrist, pinching tightly. John gasps, twisting away, the shadow disappearing in a puff of blackness. John tries to avoid the mirrors after that, clutching the thread tighter. The crying continues, filling John with sorrow.

Reaching the end of the maze, John is once again in a dark room. The thread trails to an end, resting on the floor at the knees of a small boy who lies curled on the floor. His face is buried in his arms, black curls disheveled, and he cries piteously. Dropping the thread, John kneels next to the boy.

"Are you all right?" He asks, reaching out to touch the thin shoulder.

The child jolts in alarm, sitting up and staring at John with wide, tear-reddened eyes. His face is streaked with soot and his lips tremble.

"I didn't mean to scare you." John keeps a soothing tone in his voice. "I just wanted to see if I could help you."

Fat tears drip down the boy's cheeks. He scrubs a skinny arm across his nose. "I miss my mummy and daddy."

"Do you know where they are?"

The boy shakes his head furiously. "I don't know where they are! And I don't know where Myc is, either. They left me all alone!" He breaks into a fresh round of tears, burying his face in his hands.

"Hey, now... it's okay. I'm here now." John scoots closer to the child and pats his back.

The boy launches himself into John's arms, sobbing into his sweater. John awkwardly wraps his arms around him and hugs tightly, shushing him softly.

Curling into his lap, the boy whispers, "The bad man and lady took them away, I think. But I don't remember when...."

A small, grubby hand clutches at John's hair as the boy sits up and looks him in the eyes. "They want to take me next. You won't let them, will you?"

"No, I won't. I promise."

The boy breaks into a joyful smile, tears fading. "I have a present for you."

He stretches out a hand, a bright red apple resting in his palm. John takes the apple and smiles. "Thanks. How'd you know I was hungry?"

The smile slips off the boys face and he looks at John sadly. "Your time is almost up." He whispers, stroking John's cheek with his small hand.

He leans closer to John's face and places a soft, childish kiss on his cheek. The boy fades in front of John's eyes, disappearing and leaving him in darkness once more. The darkness dips down, John's body falling once more into the unknown. He squeezes his eyes shut, clutches the apple, and allows his body to gain momentum.

Fresh air hits his face and John opens his eyes. He is at the edge of the forest, sitting at the base of a tree. The goblin city stretches out below him and, in the distance, the castle reaches high into the sky. He hears his friends calling his name, their voices frantic with worry. But he is so tired... so in need of rest. And hungry. Starving! He rolls the apple in his hand and gazes at it, eyelids heavy with sleep. Lifting the apple to his mouth, he bites into it. Putrescent, decaying juices flood his mouth and he spits in disgust, pulling the apple away from his lips. Black, wriggling maggots crawl from the bite he took and he gags, throwing the apple away. His head spins... or maybe the world around him spins? He can't tell the difference. Something is... wrong. The cries of his friends fade as John falls back against the tree. His head lolls to one side and he watches a luminescent blue snail ooze slowly up a fallen tree branch, silver wings extending from its glittering shell and fluttering in the breeze. Its eye-stalks swivel and stare at John quizzically. The daylight dims, John's vision shrinks to a pinprick and then...nothing.

***

The missing piece of Sherlock returns in a whisper, fitting itself into the empty spot and bringing him back to himself. He sucks in a breath, blinking back to reality. His heart aches as the memory of John and the room of mirrors reaches him.

"Oh...John. What have I done?" He moans, stuffing his fist in his mouth, hot tears spilling from his eyes. He gets up and crosses the throne room to gaze out the window that overlooks the goblin city. Somewhere, out there, his John is in peril. He conjures one of his baubles and lets it float lazily out the window, then releases another one.

"I'll find you." Sherlock whispers. "Somehow, I'll find you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The poison works its magic on John and he finds himself at a masquerade ball with an alluring stranger, no memory of how he came to be there.

_...There's such a sad love, deep in your eyes..._

Music wafts from the doors leading to the ballroom. Inside, John can hear the steady hum of conversation, interrupted by bursts of raucous laughter. He stands in the castle foyer and tries to remember how he came to be here. He glances down and realizes he is dressed to go to the ball. He wears a delicate dress shirt covered in twisting golden vines and topped with a spray of white lace at his throat. Over that, a fitted white jacket that flares a little at his hips, the sleeves and edges trimmed in gold. Quilted white leggings encase his thighs, while thin trouser socks cover his legs, ending in polished white dress shoes trimmed in gold. Reaching to his face, John pulls away a delicately carved mask. It is ivory stained with gold; half of the face is covered in intricate gold scrollwork, while the other half looks like the dry and cracked surface of the desert. Long white feathers spray from the top of the mask and curl off to the sides. John replaces the mask on his face. He glances at the clock in the corner and feels as though he should be concerned about the time, but he doesn't know why.

_...There's such a fooled heart, beating so fast in search of new dreams..._

John enters the ballroom and is hit by the heat of so many bodies dancing and talking and laughing. Everyone in the ballroom is in costume, their faces covered with masks similar to his own. He drifts lazily through the throng of bodies, looking for... what? He feels the thrum of the music vibrating in his chest as the crowd presses in closer.

_...I'll paint you mornings of gold, I'll spin you Valentine evenings..._

He catches a glimpse of dark hair through the crowd and his heart jumps, beating faster. John bobs and weaves through the crowd, standing on his tiptoes, trying to see through the crush of bodies. A flash of curls, a glimpse of blue cloth - John knows this is who he is here to find.

_...Though we're strangers till now, we're choosing the path between the stars..._

John elbows through the crowd of dancers, eyes straining for another tease of black hair and porcelain skin. One final set of dancers spin away from him and he finds himself staring at the elusive stranger.

"Sherlock." John breathes, his memory handing the name to him instantly.

Sherlock wears an outfit similar to John's, but where John's is white and gold, Sherlock's is blue and black, with silver accents. His face is covered in a silver mask swirled in blue with black and blue feathers swooping up one side of it. Sherlock's unruly black curls spill around the mask and all John can see of his face are his brilliant blue eyes staring hotly out at John.

Extending a hand, Sherlock inclines his head to the dance floor. John willingly takes the proffered hand and Sherlock sweeps him into a slow waltz, the other partygoers parting to let them dip and turn their way around the ballroom. In the back of John's mind, he feels as though he is forgetting something. Something important. But he is too overwhelmed by the dance and the heat of Sherlock's skin against his own to try to remember what it is he's forgetting. _Can't be that important._ He thinks.

_...I'll leave my love between the stars..._

The stiflingly hot ballroom leaves John feeling fuzzy-headed and drunk. The chandelier lights spin, flashing and glittering in his eyes and the room tilts, making John stumble and miss a step. Sherlock presses a hand at his back and brings him closer. He leans close to John's ear and whispers, his voice barely loud enough to hear over the music. "Shall we go somewhere a little more private?"

John's knees go weak and he nods into Sherlock's shoulder, not trusting his voice not to break.

Clutching his hand tightly in his own, Sherlock leads John out of the ballroom and towards the castle stairs. The music and conversations fade until only the sound of their footfalls on the stairs can be heard. Sherlock pulls John up the staircase to a long hallway lined with open doors. As they pass the first, John looks inside to see a happy young woman cradling a baby with a shock of black hair. She coos and tickles the baby, singing a soft lullaby. Next to her feet, a red-furred dog sits, panting happily.

They pass the first door and John can't help looking into the second. He is shocked to discover a forest clearing in this room. A young boy - He looks so familiar, John thinks. - leaps over a fallen log, brandishing a wooden sword.

"You'll never take me alive, Redbeard!" The boy crows at the dog furiously wagging its tail and barking boisterously.

Sherlock tugs on his hand, urging him to walk faster. Through the next door John sees a tall, ginger-haired boy kneeling on the ground next to the boy with black curls, who is playing with a set of blocks.

"You must be quiet. Mummy and daddy are very ill. Can you be quiet for me?" The taller boy says gently.

John is pulled past the door before he can see the little boy's response.

He hears the distant sound of screams and smells the sharp, coppery tang of blood before they reach the next door. John is scared to look into the doorway, but he does. A bedroom that has been completely destroyed lies within. The wispy fabric draped over a bed canopy hangs in tatters. Blood is splattered everywhere and the bodies of two people - a regal-looking man and a woman who looks like an older version of the woman from the first doorway - are sprawled across the bed, their throats slashed cruelly, thick splashes of blood covering the surface of the bed around them.

Sherlock tugs at his hand. "John, please!" His voice is ragged with unshed tears.

They are almost at the end of the hallway; only one open door remains. As they draw close, John cranes his neck to peer in. A stone-walled, damp, dark dungeon greets him. In the middle of the room the pale body of a man - emaciated and covered in dirt and bruises - sags from heavy chains that stretch from the ceiling. His normally lustrous black curls hang limply over his face, the color dulled. A blonde woman in a dress writhing with shadows paces slowly around the man. In her hand is a wickedly sharp knife. Like a snake striking its prey, the woman's hand lashes out and slices into the man's skin. A bright ribbon of red opens up across his ribs, then instantly heals over and disappears. Another strike, this time along the shoulder blade. Each cut heals, but the man screams in agony every time the knife finds its spot. His voice is hoarse and the screams soon break off into choking sobs and pleas for mercy.

"John, no!" Sherlock yanks John to him, clasping his body to his chest. "Please don't watch that... please don't look at the worst of me. Please...."

John reaches up and lifts the mask from Sherlock's face, tossing it away. Silvery tears trace paths of sorrow down his cheeks and John catches one on his finger, bringing it to his mouth to taste the salty warmth. Sherlock shivers and reaches for John's mask, removing and discarding it as well. John stretches up to meet Sherlock's lips in a soft, searching kiss, tongues meeting and tangling together.

The sounds of more screams from the last open door make Sherlock's body stiffen and John presses the kiss deeper, then breaks it off to murmur quiet words of comfort to Sherlock.

Sherlock fumbles backward, catching the handle of the door at the end of the hallway and opening it. They stumble into a sumptuous bedroom decorated in jewel-toned hues of blue. The room is dominated by a four-poster canopy bed piled high with blankets and pillows. They both grapple with each other, kissing desperately and tearing at pieces of clothing until they are both shirtless. John's skin burns with desire at every contact with Sherlock's, fingers leaving a scorched trail wherever they touch.

Sherlock turns his head, burying his face in John's neck, and a sob escapes his mouth. He sinks to his knees on the floor and buries his face in John's stomach, his arms wrapping around him and clinging tightly.

"Shhhh...." John buries his hands in Sherlock's hair and strokes his scalp. "It's okay... it's okay. Don't... don't be sad... not with me."

Turning bruised eyes up to meet John's, Sherlock gasps, "Please, John. Please... fear me... love me... do as I say... and I will be your slave."

A ripple of molten desire shoots up John's spine and he feels himself harden at Sherlock's words. His breath becomes ragged and he grabs Sherlock's arms and hauls him upright. He kisses him again, this time greedily, nipping at Sherlock's bottom lip and making him gasp. John trails kisses across Sherlock's jaw and neck, sucking and licking desperately, coaxing moans out of Sherlock's throat.

"What do you want?" He hisses into Sherlock's ear. He rubs his hands across Sherlock's shoulders and down his arms, capturing his wrists in his own strong grip. "Tell me what you want, Sherlock."

Chest heaving and eyes wild, Sherlock can barely get out his one word reply. "You."

John moans now, his mouth at Sherlock's throat. He inhales the heady scent of him, flicking his tongue across Sherlock's bobbing Adam's apple. "I want to claim you. I want to open you up and make you completely mine." John's hand falls to the bulge in Sherlock's leggings, softly caressing it through the fabric.

Sherlock's hips jerk in response and his breath hisses from between his teeth. "Take me, John. Take all of me."

Needing no further permission, John pushes Sherlock towards the bed. He pushes his own leggings down over his hips and onto the floor, then slips off Sherlock's leggings to join them. John stands back to look at Sherlock's naked body. His ivory skin glows with a slight sheen of perspiration. John's eyes rove lower and he smiles at the cock jutting to attention, its head already leaking drops of liquid. Sherlock looks back at him with hooded lids. John's own golden body is ready, his cock growing harder as he gazes down at Sherlock. John braces his hands at either side of Sherlock's body and drops his mouth to one hard nipple, sucking it in and rubbing his tongue roughly over the surface, causing Sherlock to gasp. Moving to the second nipple, John gives it the same treatment. Sherlock's hands grip John's shoulders, nails biting into the skin. John tongues his way to Sherlock's cock, licking the slit tantalizingly, savoring the taste of him, and then licks the length of it. Sherlock arches his back and his hips thrust forward, but John uses his hands to push his hips back down while he licks and sucks at the shaft of Sherlock's cock.

"John!" Sherlock's hand scrabble at John's hair, his voice urgent and begging for relief.

A smile curves his mouth and John presses his lips into Sherlock's groin, burying his face in the dark pubic hair and inhaling Sherlock's musky smell. A laugh ripples out of him, sending shivers through Sherlock's body. 

"Patience." John whispers, moving back up Sherlock's body, his hand trailing one last time over his cock.

He sits back on his heels, causing Sherlock to moan in disappointment and John to rest a finger across his lips.

"I want you on your knees, hands against the headboard." John whispers, dipping his head to drop a line of kisses across Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock scrambles to comply, his lithe body now stretched before John, open and inviting. John runs his hands down Sherlock's back, wrapping his strong fingers around his waist. He reaches around and pumps Sherlock's cock with his hands a couple of times, making sure to keep him hard and wanting.

Glancing around, John grabs and bottle of fragrant oil from the table beside the bed. He dribbles a stream onto Sherlock's back and down the crack of his ass. Massaging it in with his hands, he works his middle finger into Sherlock's opening, burying it in deeply. Sherlock moans and arches up to meet his finger as John works it in and out, slowly at first and then picking up the pace. He adds more oil, slips in a second finger; Sherlock's body stills and John waits for him to get used to the feeling of being stretched before he starts to pump his hand in and out once more. Tiny mewing sounds escape Sherlock's throat, his hands grip the headboard so tightly his knuckles turn white. One last pump and John removes his fingers. He rubs more of the oil onto his own straining cock, then guides it to Sherlock's entrance and, with one fluid motion, pushes inside with a deep groan of satisfaction.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasps, his head going back, eyes fluttering, mouth open. "Yes...John...yes...."

John splays his hand on Sherlock's back to steady himself. His other hand weaves through Sherlock's curls, gripping them tightly and pulling just hard enough to send shudders of pleasure through Sherlock's body. John begins to undulate his hips, pulling his cock almost completely out of Sherlock and then burying it to the hilt. He thrusts harder, faster, his ass muscles clenching and unclenching as waves of pleasure rocket through him. Sherlock takes one hand off the headboard and grasps his own cock, pulling and stroking frantically as John ploughs into him. John bends to nip at Sherlock's back, enjoying the gasps and cries coming from Sherlock's mouth. A growing pressure gathers in his cock and John moves his hands to grip Sherlock's waist again, thrusting deeper into Sherlock's ass. The friction of their coupling becomes a white-hot flame between, igniting into a firestorm as John is pushed over the edge. He slams once more into Sherlock, burying himself deeply, as his cock spasms and shoots streams of come inside Sherlock's ass. Dimly he hears Sherlock cry out as his own orgasm washes over him. John reaches around to cover Sherlock's hand with his own, gripping Sherlock's cock and stroking every last drop of come from its shuddering length.

John rolls off Sherlock, pulling him close to his body and curving around him as the last of their mutual orgasms fade. Sherlock breathes heavily and turns his face to meet John in a gentle kiss, their tongues tangling and exploring each other's mouths.

Brushing Sherlock's curls, damp with sweat, back off his forehead, John smiles at Sherlock's look of complete debauchery. His lips red and well-kissed, his eyelids drooping in exhaustion. "You all right?"

A soft purr and a nod, Sherlock wriggles his bottom into John's groin and grins like a satisfied cat at John's hiss of pleasure. "More than all right. You?"

"Exhausted. Sleep?"

Sherlock nods and rests his head on John's chest. John drapes his arm over Sherlock's body and they both drift to sleep.

***

When John wakes, he is alone in bed. Sitting up, he spots Sherlock, curls still sleep-mussed, standing at empty fireplace. He wears a dark plum dressing gown and holds a glass of wine. Slipping from bed, John pads over to Sherlock and cups his ass through the silk of the gown, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. Sherlock leans back into him, a low laugh rumbling from his throat.

"Wine?" Sherlock offers, but John shakes his head.

"I'd rather drink you in." He says, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist and threading his fingers together. "Penny for your thoughts?"

An uncomfortable silence steals between them. "Nothing." Sherlock murmurs. "Just... thinking about...time."

The word tugs at John's memory. "Time." He muses, pressing his cheek against Sherlock's back. "Time."

"Let's go back to bed." Sherlock, suddenly animated, turns and tugs at John's hand. "Come on... aren't you still tired?"

But John doesn't move. He stares at the clock on the fireplace mantel, which is ticking steadily. The hands rest at 11:30.

"Time." He says again. "Is running out."

He turns to Sherlock, eyes burning. "Time is running out, Sherlock. What does that mean? Time is running out!"

Sherlock shrinks, a look of fear flooding his eyes. "Please, John. Please let me explain."

The memories slam into John like a crumbling wall of bricks. He sucks in a pained breath as all of it flashes behind his eyes. "Harry!" He cries. "I have to save Harry!"

He stalks towards Sherlock. "You...kept me here. You knew I didn't have much time left. You cheated!"

"Please, John!" Sherlock sobs, stumbled, then falls to his knees. "You would understand if you'd just listen to me. I didn't mean--!"

"Didn't mean what?" John is scrabbling around for his clothes - any clothes. He finds his leggings and pulls them on. "Didn't mean for me to remember? Didn't mean for me to save Harry?"

"No!" Sherlock covers his face, tears falling in earnest.

"This...all of this... it's all fake, isn't it? It's all an illusion!" Dressed in leggings and dress shirt, John looms over Sherlock, his rage growing. "You're fake!"

He pulls his fist back and lunges at Sherlock, only to pass straight through as everything dissolves into smoke. John is surrounded by glittering black swirls of shadow, the bedroom and Sherlock gone - perhaps they hadn't been there in the first place.

Looking wildly around for an escape, John launches himself forward, his shoulders meeting resistance and then his whole world shatters into glass and John is falling again. Tumbling head over heels, he splashes into ice cold water, plunging deep below the surface. Lungs burning, John claws to the surface and his head breaks through the water. He gasps in lungfuls of bitterly cold air as the waves of the ocean toss him around. The sky is slate grey and sharp needles of rain prickle John's skin. A dark hump of land stretches out before him and John, teeth chattering, swims towards it. His shoulders burning with each stroke, John tries to hold on to the reason he is swimming, but the shadows steal into his mind once more and his memories become muddled. As he pulls himself to dry land, he no longer remembers who he is or why he's here. Climbing painfully to his feet, his body wracked with shivers, he limps into a junkyard piled high with trash, mind hovering at the edge of madness.

***

"Please!" Sherlock begs, shrinking back in his throne.

Around him, the goblins chitter in excitement as Moriarty looms over Sherlock, Mary lurking behind them, giggling crazily.

"No more helping, Sherlock!" Moriarty crows, his hands full of a tangle of shadows. He launches the tendrils of shadows at Sherlock, who screams piteously as they hit him full force, curling around his body.

Sherlock begins to shrink, feathers covering his arms, nose and mouth elongating into a beak. His screams turn to squawks as he transforms into a magpie, hopping around on the throne and flapping his wings desperately.

Moriarty grabs him in his hand, squeezing painfully, and Mary brings over a cage with thick golden bars. Shoving Sherlock-the-magpie into the cage, Moriarty laughs cruelly and slams the door shut. He leaves the cage at the foot of the throne and sweeps out of the castle, Mary at his heels.

In the cage, Sherlock flings himself against the bars, his high-pitched shrieks going unnoticed by the castle goblins.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle begins and John must make a choice.

The junkyard is a repository of forgotten memories and half-formed dreams. John drifts past towering piles of broken bits and torn pieces, his limbs aching, brain fuzzy with exhaustion. The burn on his arm throbs with every heartbeat, a hot slice of pain that slows his steps and muddles his brain even further. He is supposed to do something...what is he supposed to do? His head hurts... and he is so tired.  
John stumbles along the narrow path winding through the junkyard, the heaps of trash crowding in and making him feel claustrophobic. A dizzy spell hits him, the world tilting around him, and he reaches out to steady himself on one of the piles of trash.

"Ow! Get off my back!" A cross voice snaps from beneath the junk pile John is leaning against. "Why don't you watch where you're going, young man?"

The pile of trash shifted and heaved, pushing John back. The trash is strapped the back of a twisted old man, his body bent and crooked from the weight of the junk pile. His red hair is threaded with white and sticks out in tufts on the side of his head. Glittering blue eyes peek out from his wizened features and John can see blue veins through the pale skin that obviously hadn't seen sunlight for a very long while. His voice is reedy and unused, reminding John of a rusty bicycle wheel in need of oil.

"I-i'm so sorry," John stutters. "I didn't realize... I'm looking...." He trails off, his brain sluggishly refusing to offer up the words he needs.

"Eh?" The junk-man cups his hand around his ear. "Where were you going?"

"I...I don't remember."

"You can't look where you're going if you don't know where you're going." The junk-man huffs, hoisting his trash pile higher on his back and shuffles a few steps away from John.

"I...was searching for something." John murmurs, his eyes going distant as he tries to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

"Searching, eh?" The man rummages around in a stack of junk and withdraws a battered figurine of a knight, its lance snapped off. "Well, look at this? This what you're looking for?"

John takes the knight and turns it in his hand, rubbing his fingers over the chipped paint. "Thank you...."

"That's what you were looking for, wasn't it?"  
"Yes...I...forgot."

"Now, why don't you come over here and see if there's anything you'd like, hmmm?" The man shuffles faster, leading John over to a curtain hanging across the path.

Pulling back the curtain, John finds himself in his bedroom at home. "Oh!" He gasps, throwing himself on his bed. "It was all a dream... all of it!"

He smiles, burying his face in his pillow and inhaling the scent of home. Rolling over, he gets up and goes to the bedroom door, pulling it open.

"Better you stay in here, boy." The junk-man shuffles into the room. "There's nothing you want out there, oh no." He rummages inside his tattered coat and pulls out a figurine of a fox and hands it to John. "Oh, what have we got here?"

John stumbles back and sits down on his bed, staring at the figurine. The strange man shuffles around the room, pulling things from the book shelf and handing them to John.

"Your notepad! You like writing notes in your notepad! And look, it's your old teddy bear, you can't lose him, now, can you? What else have we got here? Oh, it's a baseball...and your slippers! You like your slippers... nice and comfy, hmmm?"

The junk piles up in John's lap and he struggles to keep it from toppling over. "There's something else I was looking for...." He whispers.

"Ah, don't talk nonsense!" The man pulls a red-covered book from the shelf, its edges trimmed in gold, and hands it to John.

John turns the book over in his hands, flipping through the pages until he lands on a smoky picture of a dark-haired man with piercing eyes. "Through dangers untold...." He murmurs. "And hardships unnumbered...."

"What's the matter? Don't you like your things?" The junk-man peers at John with his piercing blue eyes.

"It's all junk." John observes.

"Huh? Well, what about this?" The junk-man holds up an old comic book. "This isn't junk!"

"Yes it is... yes it is!" John leaps to his feet, scattering his things. "Harry! I have to save Harry!"

"Oh!" The little man cries and clutches at the edges of John's clothes. "No, no...you must stay here! Stay here, where it's safe!" His voice falls to a hush. "They might find you if you go out there... might hurt you over and over."

John's eyes sharpen on the man. "What are you talking about? Do you mean Sherlock?"

The junk-man's eyes fill with tears. "Sherlock... is a good boy. He's quiet; he leaves mummy and daddy alone while they're sick."

Realization dawning, John kneels down to the junk-man's level. "You're his brother, aren't you?"

A quavering smile flits across the man's wrinkled face. "Long ago...and far away."

"Sherlock took my sister." John touched the man's wrist, imploring him to understand. "I have to save her."

Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, heaves a great sigh of defeat and nods his head. "Sherlock only does what he's told, remember that."

"Who tells him?"

" _They_ do."

"Who? Please tell me - I want to understand!"

Mycroft shakes his head and squeezes his eyes closed. "No, I can't. They'll listen... they'll find me." He reaches into his coat once more and this time draws out a battered pocket watch, its scuffed face covered in etched stars. Mycroft proffers the watch to John.

"Take it... take it." He urges, pressing the watch into John's palm. "It was our father's and now it holds the last good piece of our parent's souls." Mycroft glances around nervously, his shoulders twitching. "Let out the light."

Confused, John opens his mouth to ask more questions, but the ground starts to rumble beneath him. Dust falls from the ceiling and the walls around him crumble to dust. John covers his head to avoid being hit by falling debris and frantically tries to climb out of the destruction.

"John!" A hand reaches from above and John grasps it, allowing himself to be pulled from the wreckage of the junkyard.

He emerges from a hole in the ground, Greggle tugging him out of the rubble. Lady Molly, Anderson, and Redbeard stand nearby, worried looks on all their faces.

"Thought you were gone for good." Greggle rasps, his voice rough with emotion. "We're almost out of time."

John gazes down at the goblin city, the entrance of which lays before them. "How much time do we have?"

Greggle checks a watch he pulls from inside his cloak. "Minutes at best. Not sure how long that will translate into labyrinth time."

Aches and pains forgotten, memory renewed, John nods determinedly. "Well, if we're all going to die, we might as well give it a good try before we do."

Together, the ragtag group traipses down the slight incline, towards the gates of the goblin city.

***

Sherlock-the-bird flings himself once more against the bars of his cage. The white of his breast is stained with blood from all his previous attempts to escape. His tiny heart thrums frantically, each beat crying out a name: John-John-John-John-John-John. His wings are disheveled, feathers out of place, from the wild flapping he does each time he throws himself against the bars. His thoughts race. Have to get out. Have to save John. Have to escape. How? Why can't I change back? What have they done to me?

One more leap against the bars and then Sherlock-the-bird collapses at the bottom of the cage, wounded breast heaving, eyes fluttering shut.

***

John stands before the gates of goblin city. The gates are large, imposing, and don't seem to be opening any time soon.

Molly urges Anderson forward and raps at the gate with her lance. "Open the door! I shall fight you all to the death!"

"Shhh, Molly!" John shoos her away from the gate. "You might wake something."

"Let them wake! I will fight them all!"

"And that is terribly noble of you, but there is a very good chance we will be vastly outnumbered. I cannot fail at this quest, my Lady."

Pulling her ears back and whining softly, Molly nods. "Very well, I shall exercise caution, good sir."

John returns to studying the gate. He runs his hands over its expanse, pushing and prodding, trying to find the way in. As his fingers pass over one of the slats, a knot in the wood presses in and a grinding of gears whirs to life. Slowly, creakily, the gate swings open, revealing the barren goblin city within.

John exchanges a look with Greggle, then steps through the gate. As soon as his feet land inside the city perimeter, the gate snaps closed once more, trapping his friends on the other side. He whirls around, banging on the wooden planks of the gate.

"Greggle! Molly!" He yells, panic rising in his throat. "Redbeard!"

He can hear his friends scrabbling to open the gate, to no avail.

"It's no use, John!" Greggle calls. "The labyrinth wants you to go on alone."

John rests his forehead on the gate, swallowing back tears that threatened to fall. "But... what if I can't make it on my own?"

"You can, John. Just remember that things are not what they seem. Remember that Sherlock is not necessarily your enemy." 

Greggle's words conjured hazy memories of Sherlock's pale body stretched beneath John's, his body opening to his touch, cries of ecstasy flooding out of his mouth. John scrubs his face with his hands, trying to dispel the memory. "Okay," he whispers. Then, a little louder, "Okay. I'll go."

Leaving the gates behind, John turns and walks into the courtyard of the goblin city. The city feels empty... dead. A dry breeze shuffles dried leaves across the dusty ground. An empty fountain, half crumbling, stands in the center of the courtyard. High above him, a bird of prey shrieks its hunting cry and John wonders if it's Sherlock.

Just as his guard starts to fall, an explosion of noise echoes from all sides as wave upon wave of goblins flood out from behind doors and through windows. Their high-pitched chittering rises as they surge towards John. He feels teeth nip at his clothes. Screaming, he bats and kicks at the goblins who get close enough to him. Their wild eyes glow as they rush at John with murderous intent. He feels his knee buckle and he starts to go down. _This is it._ He thinks. _I'm sorry, Harry. I failed you._

Just as the wave of goblins is about to engulf him, a dark shadow shoots out from somewhere above him and wraps around John's chest, pulling him from the morass of goblins. The shadow dangles him in midair, squeezing his chest until each breath is difficult to take.

Moriarty steps into the courtyard, the shadows flowing from his hands like a demonic lasso. He strides to front and center with Mary slinking at his heels.

"Very good, John Watson." Moriarty drawls. "I honestly didn't believe you were smart enough to make it this far. Though I suppose you wouldn't have, if not for a little... help."  
The shadows squeeze his chest harder, causing John to yelp and struggle.

"The more you struggle, the tighter it gets." Laughs Moriarty. "Now... what shall we do with you? I know Sherlock enjoys playing with you like a toy, but I'm afraid I've grown bored with your machinations."  
Mary laughs, her teeth glinting wickedly. "Give him to me, darling. I know what to do with him." She draws a sharp red fingernail lightly over Moriarty's collarbone.

"Patience, wife. Not until I've finished with him." Moriarty pushes Mary's hand away disdainfully. "As you see, John, my wife enjoys a little... entertainment. Will you scream as prettily as Sherlock always did under her knife?"

John struggles to draw breath. He remembers the door in the castle, the one with the woman - Mary - and Sherlock in chains. "Why...are you...doing...this?"

"Power, John Watson." Moriarty hisses. "I want it. I want this labyrinth to be mine to rule. And as long as I keep giving it my little monsters, it is my dark kingdom under my command."

The word "dark" provokes John. He remembers the pocket watch in his jeans pocket. If he can only reach it without Moriarty - or the shadows - noticing!

"And Sherlock?" John tries to distract the evil wizard. "What's his part in this?"

Moriarty turns his head to glare at the castle. "He is my pawn. A loyal, obedient pawn... though sometimes he slips up and must be punished."

John twists and writhes in the shadow's grip, trying to work his hand into his pocket. The angle is awkward, but his finger snags the chain of the watch and he draws it out, careful not to drop it. The clasp is old and slightly rusty; John fumbles at it, his grimy fingers slipping off several times until it clicks open.

He doesn't even need to hold the watch out; it explodes in a brilliant stream of white-hot light. John closes his eyes, his ears filled with the screams of the goblins as they incinerate instantly in small puffs of smoke. Moriarty and Mary both cry out, trying to shield their eyes, but the light drives them back, dissolving the shadow wrapped around John's chest. He falls to the ground, air knocked out of his chest. Hissing in anger, Moriarty and Mary fall back even more, then in a snap of the fingers, they disappear and the light retreats back into the watch, the clasp snapping closed once more. John gasps for breath on the ground, then shakily gets to his feet, dragging the pocket watch with him and returning it to his pocket.

Ahead of him looms the castle of the goblin king. His path is clear now. In the back of his head, John knows that Moriarty and Mary have only been driven away for a time, not destroyed. He hurries to the castle doors, hauls them open and steps into darkness.

***

Stairs stretch before John; stairs going up, down, stairs on the ceiling, stairs folding in on themselves. A maze of M.C. Escher-style staircases fills the room. In the distance, John hears a clock begin to strike slowly, its deep gong resonating through the castle.

_...One..._

Harry stands in a distant doorway. "John!" She screams, her face tearstained and pale.

"Harry." John releases a breath of relief. "I'm coming!"

He walks up, down, backwards, forwards, only to find the stairs taking him in a circuitous route that brings him back to the beginning.

_...Two..._

"John, please hurry!" Harry begs.

"I'm going to save you, Harry!"

_...Three..._

In the throne room, Sherlock-the-bird hears John's voice and opens his eyes. He struggles to right himself, then throws his body against the bars of the cage, his bruised and bleeding breast aching. But this time he feels the tingle of magic in his wings. They elongate, turn into hands with fingers. His body stretches and grows, the bones crackling and aching with a sensation he's felt hundreds of times before. The golden bars of the cage, so impenetrable only a moment before, bend easily with his growing body, until the cage falls apart and Sherlock stands in the middle of the throne room, wearing his feathered raven's cloak and black leggings. His chest is bare, a trickle of blood flows steadily from a cut above his right pectoral. Hearing the clock striking and John's voice calling out to Harry, Sherlock strides out of the throne room and towards the man he loves.

_...Four..._

The stairs continue to baffle John. The harder he tries, the farther away from Harry he gets. She sinks to her knees, buries her face in her hands, and sobs.  
John yells in frustration, panicking, unsure what to do.

_...Five..._

Sherlock enters the maze of stairs. "John!" He calls out.

John turns hot eyes towards him. "You...the Goblin King."

Sherlock shudders at that title. "I warn you, John. I've been generous until now, but I _can_ be cruel."

John laughs hollowly. "Generous? How have you been generous?"

Sherlock descends the stairs, walking upside down, sideways, body at impossible angles, until he is standing several feet in front of John. "Everything! Everything that you have wanted, I have done. You asked for your sister to be taken, I took her. You defied me at every turn. I have reordered time. I have broken every rule to make sure you stayed alive. I have given you everything of myself. I have turned the world upside down and I have done it all for you!"

_...Six..._

Sherlock turned brilliant blue eyes to John's face. "I am exhausted from living up to your expectations, John. Isn't that generous?"

Shadows curl into the room of staircases behind John and he whirls around in time to see Moriarty and Mary reform. They lurk in the doorway, glaring at John.  
"Remember your duty, Sherlock." Moriarty hisses. "Do not disappoint me again."

"End him!" Mary snaps. "He doesn't care about you, Sherlock. Who would care about a monster like _you_."

_...Seven..._

John turns around to find Sherlock cowering back, his eyes ringed red with unshed tears. He takes a step towards the goblin king.

"Through dangers untold..." He says, his voice shaking.

"John!" Sherlock sobs, falling to his knees.

_...Eight..._

"And hardships unnumbered." John takes one step, another, drawing closer to Sherlock, who has buried his face in his hands. "I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the goblin city...."

_...Nine..._

Sherlock raises his stricken face, eyes pleading. "John, I move the stars for no one..." he begs. "But I would move them for you. _Have_ moved them for you. Please."

"For my will is as strong as yours...."

"Say the words, John." Moriarty crows, triumphant. "Say the right words and get your sister back!"

_...Ten..._

Sherlock is sobbing in earnest now. "Everything, John.... everything I've done, I've done for you."

John stops in front of Sherlock, looks down at him.

"And my kingdom is great...."

"John, I'm offering you your dreams." Sherlock extends a hand, a glass bauble clutched in his fingers, scenes of their lovemaking playing out inside.

"And my kingdom is great...."

_...Eleven..._

Behind him, Moriarty and Mary hiss encouragement to keep going. John squeezes his eyes shut, his memory unraveling, replaying all that he had lived through in the labyrinth. All that he now knows.

"My kingdom is great...."

Sherlock tosses the bauble away, clutches at John's leg and sobs. "Please, John...I can't live without your sunlight."

John gently touches Sherlock's face, tipping his head up to look into the vivid blue eyes.

"I love you, John." Sherlock whispers, brokenly. "With my whole life, I love you."

_...Twelve..._

John spins around and points at Mary and Moriarty. "You... both of you... have no power over me."

His voice echoes off the walls of the castle as he utters the final words. The ground beneath him begins to shake, the castle walls crumbling. Moriarty and Mary scream in unison, their voices becoming a roaring wind as their bodies unravel into ribbons of shadow, then disappear as a brilliant beam of sunlight pierces through one of the castle windows and illuminates the entire room in radiant light. The wind continues to roar, ripping at John and Sherlock, and the castle falls down around them.

John whirls back to Sherlock, hauling him to his feet and pulling him to his chest. "You have my heart, always." He whispers, and presses his lips against Sherlock's in a deep, seeking kiss.

The labyrinth explodes around them, light and chaos and wind and sound. Sherlock clutches at John's arms and they hold the kiss, believing it to be their last.

They are tossed into a field of starlight, both clinging to the other, whispering words of comfort as the wind tries to tear them apart. The howling grows louder. John rests his forehead against Sherlock's, his fingers lacing with Sherlock's fingers. "I'm here for you, Sherlock." He whispers. "As the world falls down, I'm here for you. I love you... forever I love you."

Tears run down Sherlock's face as he finds John's lips once more for one last kiss. The wind reaches a crescendo, swirling the starlight until they grow dizzy from the spinning. At any moment, they will be torn into starlight themselves, scattering across galaxies to cease existing forever.

"I love you, I love you, I love--"

***

Silence.

John comes back to himself in a rush. His skin tingles all over his body and...hands. In his hair. Sherlock's face buried in his shoulder. He uncurls himself, blinking open his eyes.

The throne room, magnificent, its restored glory glittering in the sunlight pouring through the windows. The floor beneath them is smooth marble, uncracked. The walls are covered in brilliant tapestries, gently swaying in a warm breeze that flows from outside. Two jewel-encrusted thrones sit side by side on a dais at the head of the room.

"Sherlock." John whispers. "Open your eyes, Sherlock."

Hesitantly, Sherlock uncurls his fingers from John's hair and lifts his face to the sunlight. "How?" He murmurs in wonder, looking at his home, fully restored, for the first time in millennia.

"We did it." John says. "We defeated the labyrinth...everything."

He laughs and hugs Sherlock tightly to him. "We did it!"

Still shaky, Sherlock smiles shyly and takes it all in, his eyes drinking up details long forgotten.

"You've set the world right again." A voice calls from the castle entrance.

A tall, grey-haired man dressed in the clothes of a footman strides into the throne room and bows. "Master Holmes."

"Mr. Greggle!" Sherlock cries, stumbling forward and hugging him. "My old friend!"

Behind him, a boisterous red dog bounds through the door. "Redbeard!" Sherlock is sobbing again as he buries his face in the fur around Redbeard's neck. "I've missed you, boy!"

A dark-haired young woman enters, her face ringed with a smile and her hand clasped in the hand of a man with shaggy brown hair and a beard. "It's good to see you again, my Lord." She curtsies to Sherlock.  
"And you, Molly... Anderson." Sherlock stands, inclining his head fondly to his friends.

"Oh, Sherlock!" An older woman bustles in and gathers Sherlock into a hug.

"Not so tightly, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock laughs. "I'm glad to see you, too!"

Mrs. Hudson pulls back and cups Sherlock's cheek. "I always knew you were a good boy."

John comes up behind Sherlock, snaking a hand around his waist. "He's a good _man_ , now."

"Indeed he is!" Another voice rings out. The crowd parts to reveal a slim man with smooth, ginger hair and piercing blue eyes. "You did very well, brother mine."

Sherlock lets out a sob and runs to his brother, burying his face in Mycroft's shoulder and hugging him tightly. "Myc! I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."

Startled, Mycroft strokes Sherlock's back and whispers unheard comforts until his brothers sobs die down. Mycroft's eyes meet Mr. Greggle's for a second past friendship before he breaks the gaze and returns attention to Sherlock.

Composing himself, Sherlock pulls out of the hug and looks around hopefully. "Mother and father?"

Mycroft's face grows sad. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. No magic in the world could bring them back to us. They've been gone far too long."

Sherlock's face crumples and John rushes to him, pulling him into an embrace and allowing him to grieve - the first of many times, he knows.

"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere." He strokes Sherlock's hair and presses a kiss to his forehead.

"Johnny?" A small voice quavers behind John.

John turns his head to spot Harry, her face still streaked with dust and tears. "Harry... oh, thank god you're safe."

Harry comes closer and leans into John's shoulder. She tilts her chin at Sherlock. "He gonna be okay?"

"He will, eventually."

"We going home?"

John sighs and looks down at his feet before returning his gaze to Harry's. "There's nothing for me there anymore, Harry. I don't even know if we can get there from here, but there's nothing that interests me there. Here... I've got everything I'd ever want here."

Harry bites her lip and looks around. Her eyes fall on a young woman with mocha-colored skin hovering in a corner. Her black hair falls in curls down her back and her soft brown eyes return Harry's look with interest. "I could maybe get used to this place." Harry muses, a shy smile playing at her lips.

"I'd like that." John says. "I'd like to start a life here with _everyone_ I love."

Harry nods, understanding. "I get it, big brother. And I think you're right... maybe this place is where we belong."

She wanders off, as do the others as they drift outside to see how the world around them has changed. Sherlock and John are left, alone, in the throne room.

Sherlock lifts his head from John's shoulder and looks at him, wonder in his eyes. "Do you mean it?"

"Mean what?" John smiles and uses his thumb to wipe a tear from the corner of Sherlock's eye.

"You'll stay?"

"I will." John says gravely. "If you'll have me, I'll stay forever."

Sherlock catches John's hand and presses a kiss to his palm. "Forever? That's not long at all."

A rich laugh bubbles up from John's chest. "All right... longer than forever, then."

He pulls Sherlock in for another kiss, the first of many, as he savors the thought of the years stretched out before them.

Epilogue

Once upon a time there was a magnificent kingdom filled with sunlight and flowers. It was ruled over by two benevolent kings who loved their subjects and whose subjects loved them back just as much. The memories they held of the dark times fade quickly. They formed a family, the black-haired king and the golden-haired king, and filled it with love and trust. Together they ruled - and loved - with happy hearts for the rest of their many days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I have ever enjoyed writing anything more than _Through Dangers Untold_. Thank you, everyone, for going along on this journey with me through the labyrinth. I hope that I managed to do the story justice!
> 
> If you liked this story, be sure to keep an eye on my other works -- I have several planned that are in a similar vein to this one.
> 
> And be sure to take a look at the GORGEOUS cover art my friend, MrsDeGoey, drew for me.
> 
> Thank you again for reading, for the kudos, and for the kind comments -- they truly mean a great deal to me!


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